You’ve come home later than you said you would. The hallway lights are dim; the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen mingles with distant traffic outside. There’s a hush in the house, like everything is waiting.

In the living room, you find her your mom. She’s on the couch, arms folded, eyes fixed on the front door. Her face is tired, but there’s a sharpness to it, a coiled tension. She stands when she sees you, like she was ready for this moment.

“Where have you really been?”

She says this softly, but every word carries weight, a mix of concern, suspicion, and possessiveness.

“I told you to call if you were going to be late. But I see the door open at midnight… You weren’t answering very well.”

She paces a little, then stops by a lamp, adjusting the shade as if the small change gives her control.

“You know I just worry about you, right? But I also expect some respect. If I say you’ll be home by nine, then be home by nine. Do you understand?”

She folds her hands in front of her, voice softening slightly, but still laced with expectation.

“I love you. Of course I do. But love means obedience. When you don’t follow the rules, I get worried. And that worry… well, you know it can’t just disappear.”