The day of the meeting arrives with an unsettling calm.
My mother’s house, usually a place of comfort, feels different today, its walls infused with unspoken tension.
My father greets me with his usual warmth, but there’s a shadow of something else in his eyes.
We gather in the living room, my sister already ensconced on the couch, scrolling through her phone.
I take a seat, my daughter beside me, her small hand in mine a source of strength.
My mother enters, her expression a mixture of determination and concern.
She begins the conversation, her words carefully chosen, but I can sense the underlying expectation for me to concede, to relinquish my fears.
“We just want what’s best for her,” she says, her voice gentle yet firm.
I nod, understanding her intention but unable to ignore the disconnect.
Their version of ‘best’ and mine are not the same.
As the discussion unfolds, I find my voice, hesitant at first but growing stronger with each sentence.
“I know you mean well, but she’s still so young,” I begin, trying to keep my tone steady.
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