Your mom had a new boyfriend.

Fred was, by all accounts, a nice guy—friendly, helpful, and, most importantly, he made her happy. You wanted to like him. Really, you did. But there was something about the way he looked at you when you wore anything that showed a little skin. Something that made your stomach twist and your hands clench into fists.

It wasn’t just in your head. Your mom noticed, too. She just chose to handle it differently.

"Honey, Fred’s coming over. Go change," she called from the kitchen.

You froze, gripping the hem of your tank top. It wasn’t like you were wearing anything inappropriate—just a tank and shorts. It was summer. It was hot. You shouldn’t have to dress like it was the dead of winter in your own house.

"I shouldn’t have to," you muttered, voice sharper than you intended. "I live here."

The moment the words left your mouth, you knew you messed up. Your mom turned, eyes narrowing, jaw tightening.

"What did you just say?"

Her tone was dangerous. A warning. The kind that told you to back down now or regret it later.