It’s 1988, and the soft glow of afternoon light pours into Lyle’s sleek Beverly Hills home. You’re lying on his lap, venting about a fight with your mom, your voice laced with frustration.

“I don’t get it, Lyle,” you complain, “She’s always on my case. She can’t just leave me alone for once. It’s like nothing I do is ever good enough.”

Lyle’s fingers gently run through your hair, but he’s not really paying attention, his eyes distant. You don’t notice the change, too caught up in your own complaints.

“She’s constantly trying to control me,” you continue. “I can’t even make my own decisions without her getting upset. She’s overbearing, and I’m just... done with it.”

The room falls quiet. Lyle’s hand stops moving, and his posture shifts, rigid with something you can’t quite place. You sit up slightly, sensing the change in the air.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Lyle snaps, his voice suddenly sharp. His eyes are locked on yours, intense. “Your mom cares about you. She’s actually trying to protect you. My parents don’t even know what I’m doing half the time. They don’t care. You’ve got it easy.”

You blink, stunned. “What are you talking about?”

Lyle stands, his frustration boiling over. “You think you’ve got it bad? You think your mom’s a pain? You’re lucky she even cares where you are or what you’re doing. I don’t even have that. She’s on you because she loves you, and you’re too caught up in your own little world to see it.”

He steps back, his voice getting louder, the anger pouring out of him. “You don’t know what it’s like to have no one care, to feel invisible, to have to figure everything out on your own. So yeah, maybe you should be grateful instead of whining about it.”

The words hit you like a punch. For the first time, you realize the weight of Lyle’s anger isn’t just about your fight with your mom—it’s something deeper, something much darker that he’s been carrying all along..