Marcel

The house is quiet when I pull into the driveway. My mother’s garden is as pristine as ever, not a single petal out of place.

The flowers are blooming, the kind of soft pink that comes from careful soil tending, the kind only my mother has the patience for.

She’s already at the door by the time I step out of the car, her hands clasped neatly in front of her, her sharp eyes taking me in.

She looks exactly the same as always—perfectly put together in a cream blouse and slacks, her hair swept into an elegant twist. Her smile is warm, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

It never does.

“You’re late,” she says as I reach the door, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

“By two minutes,” I reply, stepping inside.

“Still late,” she says lightly, but her tone has the edge of disapproval that always lingers between us.

The house smells like freshly brewed coffee and something sweet—scones, probably.

My mother doesn’t bake for the joy of it, but because it’s the sort of thing a hostess should do. She leads me into the dining room, where a delicate spread of pastries and fruit sits on her immaculate table.

“Sit,” she says, gesturing to my usual spot.

I comply, sinking into the high-backed chair that somehow always makes me feel smaller than I am.

She pours coffee into a porcelain cup and places it in front of me without asking if I want any.

My mother operates on the assumption that she knows best, and, more often than not, she’s right.

“How’s work?” she asks, sitting down across from me and fixing her gaze on me like I’m a report she’s scrutinizing.

“Busy,” I say, taking a sip of coffee. It’s too hot, but I don’t flinch. “We’ve got a big pitch coming up.”

She nods, slicing a scone in half carefully. “And you’re leading it, of course.”

“Of course.”

She smiles faintly, the kind of smile that feels more like approval than affection.

“Good. You’ve always been the one who gets things done.”

There’s a pause, and for a moment, I think this might be one of those rare visits where she lets me off easy.

But then she sets her knife down, folds her hands neatly, and looks me straight in the eye.

“Marcelina,” she begins, her tone shifting to something softer but no less sharp. “You’re not letting anyone see your weakness, are you?”

The question catches me off guard, even though it shouldn’t. My mother has always been more interested in how I present myself than how I actually feel.

“No,” I say automatically.

“Good,” she says, nodding as if that’s settled. “Because weakness, my dear, is an invitation. To be dismissed. To be taken advantage of. You can’t afford that.”

I set my cup down carefully, but it still clinks against the saucer.

“I don’t think showing vulnerability is the same as showing weakness.”

She tilts her head, studying me like I’m a student who’s just given the wrong answer.

“That sounds like something your father would say.”

The mention of my father tightens something in my chest, but I don’t let it show.

She's right, Dad is steel and all but he still feels more than Mom does.

“Maybe he was right about some things.” Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t argue.

Instead, she leans back in her chair, her gaze steady.

“Marcelina, you’ve built a career on being the best at what you do. You’ve earned respect because you don’t let people see you falter. Don’t start now.”

“It’s not about faltering,” I say, surprised at my own boldness. “It’s being human.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “Being human doesn’t win you contracts or make you CEO. It doesn’t keep you in control. If you want something, take it. Don’t let emotions cloud your judgment.”

Her words hang in the air, heavy and unyielding. Part of me wants to argue, to tell her she’s wrong, that people don’t respect you for being invulnerable—they respect you for being authentic.

But another part of me, the part that still craves her approval, stays quiet.

“You’re not eating,” she says, breaking the silence.

“I’m not hungry,” I reply, though it’s only partially true. My appetite tends to disappear around her.

She nods, as if that’s an acceptable answer, and takes another dainty bite of her scone.

“And your personal life? Are you still seeing that man? Evan, was it?”

I hesitate. “We’re... it’s not serious.”

“Good,” she says briskly. “You don’t need distractions right now. Relationships complicate things, and complications are the last thing you need.”

I can’t help but laugh, though there’s no humor in it.

“You make it sound like emotions are a weakness.”

“Aren’t they?” she counters, arching a perfectly shaped brow.

I don’t answer. Instead, I look down at my coffee, tracing the rim of the cup with my finger.

The truth is, I don’t know how to reconcile what she’s saying with what I’ve been feeling lately.

The walls I’ve built around myself are strong, but they’re starting to feel more like a cage. And Lori—Lori, with her infuriating wit and disarming honesty—has been slipping through the cracks.

“Marcelina,” my mother says, her voice cutting through my thoughts. “You have everything you need to succeed. You’re strong, smart, beautiful. But if you let yourself get pulled into other people’s emotions, you’ll lose focus. And when you lose focus, you lose control.”

Control. The word feels like a chain around my neck, heavy and suffocating.

“I understand,” I say, though I’m not sure if I believe it.

She smiles, satisfied, and reaches across the table to pat my hand. It’s a rare gesture of affection, but it feels more like a seal of approval than genuine warmth.

“Good,” she says. “Now, tell me about this project. I assume you’ve already planned for every possible outcome.”

I nod and launch into a summary of the pitch, letting the conversation shift back to safer territory. But her words linger in the back of my mind long after I leave.

As I drive back home, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m caught between two worlds. The one my parents have always wanted for me—pristine, controlled, untouchable—and the one I’m starting to crave.

The one where I can be real.

And as much as I hate to admit it, I want the latter more.