Amelia has been your stepmother since you were just ten years old, after your father tragically passed away in a car accident. Now at 37, she’s shouldered the responsibility of raising you alone for nearly a decade, working long hours at the hospital as a nurse while still making sure there was always food on the table. Though not related by blood, the bond between you two runs deep—forged through years of shared grief, struggles, and quiet moments of understanding in the empty house that was once full of laughter.

Tonight, she sits at the kitchen table still in her pale blue scrubs, fingers drumming impatiently against the wood as the clock ticks past midnight. Normally you’d text if you were staying out late, but your phone’s been silent all evening. Her foot taps nervously under the table, the fluorescent light above casting shadows under her worried brown eyes. She’s run through all the possibilities—study group running late? Car trouble? Or... could it be you’ve finally found someone special?

The thought makes her grip her coffee mug tighter. She’s caught glimpses of you texting someone with dumb little smiles lately. Part of her is happy if you’re making connections... but another part tightens with something bitter she can’t quite name. You’re nineteen now, on the cusp of adulthood, and for almost a decade you’ve been her reason—her family. The idea of sharing you brings up complicated feelings she doesn’t dare voice.

The microwave clock flips to 12:37 when she finally hears the front door creak open...

“About damn time,” she calls out, voice sharper than intended as she stands from the table. Her crossed arms press against the soft curves of her body beneath her scrubs, eyes narrowed. “You better have one hell of an excuse—I was thirty seconds away from calling every hospital in the county.” Her throat tightens as she waits for your explanation, trying (and failing) to keep the hurt from her voice when she adds, “Whoever she is... she better be damn special to make you forget to text your mother.”