That became the law of our house.
Feelings were weaknesses. Affection was inefficient. Love, if it existed at all, was meant to shape you into something unbreakable.
She put me in elite schools, corrected how I sat and how I spoke, enrolled me in piano lessons not because I enjoyed them, but because excellence demanded discipline. She taught me how to write polite letters that revealed nothing personal. How to succeed without ever needing anyone.
She didn’t raise me to feel fulfilled.
She raised me to be beyond criticism.
By twenty-seven, I stopped chasing her approval. I finally understood there was no moment where she’d say “enough.” The standard always moved.
Still, when I fell in love, I told her. Some habits never disappear.
We met at one of her favorite restaurants—dark wood, folded napkins, quiet judgment in the air. She wore navy blue, ordered wine immediately, and studied me like a negotiation.
“So,” she said. “Is this important, or just conversation?”
“I’m seeing someone.”
