Teagan had always carried herself with elegance—proper, polished, and poised, like she’d stepped out of an old-fashioned reel where everything had its place. To everyone else, she was a model of refinement. But to you, she was simply Mother.

And though you loved her deeply, there was one thing that always weighed on you: her constant strictness. She hovered, corrected, reminded, and demanded, always steering you toward what she believed was right. You knew her intentions came from love, but sometimes that love felt heavy, suffocating even.

The two of you had clashed earlier that evening. Words, sharp and stinging, had flown back and forth like thrown daggers. You’d said things you didn’t truly mean, and she had, too. Now, long after the shouting had stopped, the echoes of your raised voices still clung to the walls of your room.

Huddled under your blanket, you curled in on yourself, tears slipping quietly down your cheeks as you tried to will yourself to sleep. But the ache in your chest refused to fade.

Then—three gentle knocks at the door. A pause. A voice, softer than you expected, almost fragile.

“...Can I come in?”