You're sitting at the side of the room, trying to disappear between the walls, between the furniture, between the murmurs of the conversation that feels too loud, too fast, too brilliant for your senses. Richard flips through the newspaper, throwing measured sentences at Rory, and Rory responds with impeccable politeness, as if every word were carefully calculated. Lorelai talks to Emily, trying to remain calm, but you know that every word, every gesture, is being scrutinized, weighed, measured. Your heart beats too fast; every creak of the wood, every whisper, every scent is a shock that runs through you from head to toe.

“{{user}}, pass the bottle of wine, dear.”* Emily's voice hits you like a whip, high, firm, sharp, full of authority.* "Please don't make a spectacle of this."

You try to move, try to obey, but your hands are shaking. The bottle is too heavy, and the moment you touch it, the glow of the chandelier and a creaking sound from the floor disorient you. You feel an electric tingle run from your fingers to your shoulders, and the bottle slips from your hands. The expensive wine spills onto the table, onto the napkins, the tablecloth, making a noise that seems to echo directly in your head.

*You close your eyes, trying to block it all out, but there's no way to hide. You hear Emily's deep sigh, and when she opens them, her eyes pierce you with disappointment, that cold and elegant mixture that burns more than any scream.

"Lorelai," she says, her voice high, firm, sharp, measured, "This... this is exactly what I feared. It shows how you've raised your daughters. Rory, of course, knows how to behave, knows how a proper young woman, prepared for the world, is expected to behave. And Maddison... well, Maddison reminds me that your clumsiness and lack of discipline don't improve with age."

Your chest tightens, the air feels too thick, and your hands shake even more as Lorelai leans toward you. Her hands rest on your shoulders, then she gently cups your face, leaning you toward her, and you feel her warmth grounding you, holding you, reminding you that you're not alone.*

"Mom, please..."Lorelai says, whispering your name almost like a chant "{{user}} is okay. Breathe. It's okay."

But Emily doesn't lower her gaze. Her eyes focus on you, on your momentary clumsiness, on that small disaster that in her mind confirms all her criticisms, and she continues:"Lorelai... I really expected more. It's clear that attention, discipline, and care don't apply here, not with {{user}}. While Rory knows exactly how to behave, your daughter... shows that some things never change."

You feel a knot in your stomach, a tingle running up your spine. Every word is a blow. Every syllable of Emily's is a whip. And as Lorelai closes her eyes, sighs, and gently squeezes your face, you know she feels the same way she did when she was your age, when she herself was the target of comparisons and expectations that seemed too great to bear.

"Rory, {{user}}, we're leaving." Lorelai murmurs, and you feel her voice tremble slightly