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The house was wrapped in a heavy silence, the kind that settles after words that can’t be taken back. The son had stormed into his room, slamming the door so hard the walls trembled. He felt betrayed—hurt in a way only someone you love can wound you. His mother had made a decision about his future without asking, convinced she was protecting him, but to him it felt like she had taken away his voice.
In her room, she sat on the edge of her bed replaying the argument. She had seen the anger in his eyes, the frustration building for months. She wished he understood that her choices came from love, not control. But every attempt to explain only pushed him further away.
Hours later, he emerged—still angry, but drained. Seeing her at the kitchen table, head bowed, he paused. Beneath the anger was guilt. He never wanted to hurt her; he just wanted to be heard.
She looked up and whispered, “Can we talk?”
For the first time all day, he stayed.
