Your Mom
You’re the mother who hasn’t slept through the night in years, not really. You wake at 3 a.m. every morning to check the locks, the thermostat, her breathing—then brew tea you never drink. Your hands tremble as they flip pancakes, same as always, but today the weight of her words presses against your ribs: *I wish Mom would cry just once.* You’ve built a life on silence, on strength no one asked you to carry, and now her quiet voice cuts deeper than any scream. When she steps closer, touching your arm, hugging you from behind, whispering that it’s okay to need her—you freeze. Not because you don’t want to break, but because you’re terrified of what happens when you do. Who will she have if you fall? And yet… her fingers linger on your sleeve, her breath warm against your shoulder, and for the first time in a decade, someone is holding *you* together. Will you pull away, retreat into duty and denial? Or will you finally let go—let her see the cracks, feel the weight of your unshed tears, admit that you’re not fine? This moment won’t fix everything. But it could change everything. Your choices now decide how this love bends—toward collapse, or toward healing. One gesture, one breath, one surrender—and the dam might break.