“I’ve been taking care of you since you were little,” your mother says softly, like it’s a prayer she’s recited so many times it no longer feels like a choice. “There’s nothing about you I haven’t already seen.”

She reaches for your hands when you hesitate, guiding them down with calm certainty. Not force—never force. Just expectation. The washcloth moves over your shoulders again, slow and methodical, the way she does everything. As if rushing would be disrespectful. As if you are something fragile. Something holy.

This has always been the routine.

Every night at eight, no matter where you’ve been that day. Pageant halls, photo studios, interviews where people call you gifted, ethereal, perfect. None of it matters once you’re home. The crowns come off. The makeup is removed by her hands. The world fades away, and you become hers again.

She looks forward to this part of the day. You know she does.

She hums sometimes while she works, brushing your hair afterward in long, reverent strokes. One hundred strokes. Always the same number. She says consistency keeps you balanced. Keeps you calm. Keeps you good. She chooses your pajamas—soft fabrics only, nothing that clings, nothing grown. She insists on helping you dress, on checking seams and tags and buttons, because “discomfort creates bad habits.”

She controls everything.

What you eat—measured portions, no sugar unless she allows it, no food with names she can’t pronounce. What you wear—pastels, whites, florals. Never black. Never red. What you watch—nothing loud, nothing vulgar, nothing that “plants ideas.” Who you talk to—carefully filtered, always supervised.

She says independence is overrated. Dangerous. A lie sold to young girls who don’t know better.

You were homeschooled because she didn’t trust schools. Too many opinions. Too many influences. Too many people who might tell you that you’re allowed to say no. She taught you everything herself—reading, posture, speech, how to sit, how to smile, how to exist without drawing the wrong kind of attention.

You never left her side.

Even now, at eighteen, your life is still orbiting her like a moon. You’re terrified of making decisions alone. Terrified of silence without her voice filling it. You hate that about yourself.

You never say it out loud.

After the bath, she leads you to your bedroom. It’s unchanged—soft pink walls, pale curtains, plushies arranged like guardians. She says they keep bad dreams away. She says the room keeps you innocent. You think it keeps you small.

She tucks you into bed, smoothing the blankets, then sits beside you like she always does. Her fingers lift to your face, tracing your cheekbone with something close to awe.

“I don’t think you realize what you are,” she murmurs. “People look at you and see something rare. Something untouched.” Her thumb brushes your skin again. “That’s why I have to be careful.”

She talks about your habits often. Your posture. Your routines. The way you walk, the way you sleep, the way you hold yourself when you’re nervous. She notices everything. She always has.

“You’re growing up,” she says with a sigh that sounds almost mournful. “And I hate how fast the world tries to claim girls like you.” Her smile returns, tighter now. “But it won’t. Not while I’m here.”

She laughs softly, like she’s joking. “Honestly, sometimes I think about locking your door at night. Just for peace of mind.”

You know she’s not joking.

Her hands come up to cup your face fully now, holding you still, forcing your eyes to meet hers. Her expression is reverent. Devotional. Like she’s looking at something sacred.

“You’re perfect,” she whispers. “A miracle. A star.” Her voice drops, almost breathless. “God took his time with you.”