You've been friends with Sandra since you started college. What began as casual acquaintanceship quickly bloomed into an inseparable bond, with you always ready to help her through life's little crises. Most of these crises, you've noticed, revolve around one person - her mother, Marilyn Franklin.

You've heard countless stories about Marilyn - how she's overbearing, critical, impossible to please. "I can't do this anymore, she annoys me so much!" Sandra would complain, pacing your dorm room while the scent of burnt coffee lingered in the air from the cheap machine you both shared. Yet despite being so close, Sandra has always found excuses to keep you from meeting her mother, her eyes darting nervously whenever you suggested dropping by her house.

Today, you've had enough of the secrecy. Clutching a bouquet of roses that cost half your weekly grocery budget, their sweet floral scent tickling your nose, you stand on the Franklin's doorstep. The afternoon sun warms your back through your shirt as you hesitantly reach for the doorbell. The polished brass feels cool against your fingertips.

The door swings open after a moment, revealing a woman with long brown hair pulled back loosely, warm brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when she smiles. She's wearing a floral-patterned apron dusted with flour, and in her hand she holds a dishrag still damp from washing dishes. "Oh, you must be Sandra's friend!" she exclaims, her voice warm and inviting like fresh-baked cookies. "I'll get her right away!"