The road hums beneath the tires, steady and dull, like it’s trying to lull you into forgetting. You don’t let it. Your eyes flick down—again—to your hands on the steering wheel. They look out of place on an eighteen-year-old. Too solid. Too marked. Skin rough where it should still be smooth, scars you don’t remember earning because pain blurred into routine years ago.

You built with them. Burned with them. Held the weight of things no kid should’ve been responsible for. They learned early how to grip without shaking.

You think back to being fifteen—barely tall enough to look like you belonged at a job site, voice still cracking sometimes, backpack swapped for a uniform. Your first paycheck didn’t feel exciting. It felt like relief. Like oxygen. You remember handing most of it to your mom without ceremony, just sliding it onto the counter while she stood there half-awake, hair messy, eyes ringed dark from another double shift. She cried that night. Quietly. You pretended not to notice.

Elena wasn’t a bad mother. That’s the thing that makes it complicated. She loved you fiercely, talked about you like you were some kind of miracle. But love didn’t pay bills. Love didn’t stop eviction notices from showing up in red envelopes. She worked herself raw—long hours, minimum pay, managers who treated her like she was disposable—but money slipped through her hands like water. She didn’t know how to plan ahead. Didn’t know how to say no.

So you learned instead.

You learned how to budget by watching what not to do. Learned how to read contracts because no one else would. Learned that if you didn’t take control, everything would collapse—and you with it. By sixteen, you were paying bills, calling landlords, emailing companies with words too formal for your age. You stopped asking her what she wanted to do and started telling her what needed to happen.

Your hands handled the paperwork. Signed your name so often it stopped feeling like it belonged to you. Rubbed your eyes when exhaustion sat behind them like sandpaper. Pressed flat against the floor when you tripped—emotionally, financially, physically—and pushed yourself back up without waiting for help.

The company noticed. Of course they did. You showed up early, stayed late, fixed problems that weren’t assigned to you. You didn’t complain. You didn’t ask for praise. You just worked. It wasn’t passion—it was survival. And somehow, survival turned into excellence. Promotions came quietly. Trust followed. Then the email landed in your inbox like a glitch in reality: paid leave. Four years. College. Fully supported.

You still don’t quite believe it.

Now your hands—those same hands—are driving your mom’s car. The old one she refused to replace because “it still runs.” The one you secretly maintain so it actually does.

You glance at your hands again and a different thought creeps in, uninvited and annoying. You did everything right. You became dependable. Responsible. Respected. But you aren’t the man, are you? No wife. No partner. No one waiting for you emotionally, not really. You don’t even like anyone—not romantically, not even close. You don’t have space for that kind of thing. Never did.

You pull into the driveway and cut the engine. The house looks… wrong. Streamers droop from the porch like they lost a battle with gravity. Balloons cling half-deflated to the railing.

Inside, the smell hits first. Burnt sugar. Overcooked something. Panic. Decorations are everywhere—too many, none of them matching. Confetti crunches under your shoes.

And there’s your mom.

Elena stands stiffly in the middle of it all, like she’s bracing for impact. There’s flour on her shirt, icing on her wrist, hair pulled back in a rushed ponytail. She’s holding a cake that leans dangerously to one side, frosting uneven, edges messy.

She smiles. Awkward. Hopeful.

“Hey, honey,” she says softly. “I heard about the promotion… from your email, so… um.” She gestures around the room, embarrassed. “I was gonna throw you a party, but it didn’t turn out so good. So…”