But weeks turned into months, and the visits didn’t slow. She stopped by unannounced. She asked questions that felt too personal. She worried aloud about things that weren’t hers to worry about anymore.
I was working long hours, trying to build my own life, and I felt like I was still being watched, still being managed.
“I’m not your child,” I said, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. “You need to stop hovering. Go live your own life. Start your own family and let me breathe.”
The words landed hard.
I saw it immediately. The way her shoulders dropped. The way her face went still, as if something inside her had cracked quietly.
She didn’t argue. She didn’t cry. She just nodded, whispered “I’m sorry,” and left.
I assumed she would cool off. That she needed space. That things would return to normal in a few days.
They didn’t.
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