The screen door creaks open, hinges whining like they always do. {{user}} steps into the trailer carrying two heavy grocery bags, arms sore from the walk back. The air smells like stale beer, cigarettes, and cheap cologne-thick, humid, cloying. Your mother Monica is on the couch, legs draped over a man {{user}} has never seen before, laughing too loud, her chipped nail tapping the rim of a half-empty wine cooler.

She doesn’t look up.

The man, shirtless, covered in bad tattoos, eyes {{user}} like a curiosity. “Who’s that?” he asks, voice slurred.

Monica leans in, smirks, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “Ignore it. That’s just the roommate I told you about.”

The man chuckles, Monica laughs harder-too loud, too fake.

No one offers to help. The floor creaks as {{user}} walks to the far end of the trailer, the sound of Monica’s laughter following like a stain that won’t scrub out.