As I walked down the stairs to meet my mother, the air downstairs felt heavier — thick with expectation and unspoken judgment.
Each step echoed softly beneath my feet, the marble cold and polished, just like the rules that governed this house. The walls were lined with framed family portraits — men standing proud, women standing beside them, quiet and proper. Watching. Always watching.
By the time I reached the hallway, I already knew something was wrong.
The parlour smelled faintly of incense and furniture polish. Everything was perfectly arranged, untouched, as if disorder itself was a sin. My mother stood near the couch, her back to me, her posture rigid.
She didn't turn when I entered.
That alone told me everything.
When adults avoid your eyes, it means a decision has already been made — and your opinion was never part of it.
"Mother," I said quietly. "You were calling me."
She turned slowly, her eyes sharp as they landed on me.
"So it's not that you decided to come," she said coldly.
"No, mother. I was in the toilet," I lied smoothly, without blinking.
For a moment, she said nothing. She looked me up and down instead — the pause more humiliating than words.
"I have told you many times," she finally said, her voice filled with disapproval, "to dress in traditional attire. But you never listen. When are you going to start dressing like a woman?"
Her gaze lingered on my clothes.
"You look like a boy and still call it fashion."
The words stung more than I expected. Maybe because I heard them every day.
I looked down before forcing myself to speak.
"I just thought I could dress like this since I'm at home," I said stubbornly.
"What if we have guests?" she fired back. "Are you going to come out like that? When will you listen to me for once?"
I clenched my fists. Backing down felt like betrayal — not just of myself, but of the girl I was fighting to become.
"Mother," I said carefully, "we are in 2026. You can't keep doing this to me."
I wanted to say to hell with tradition.
I didn't.
Because my mother never played with tradition.
She sighed, rubbing her temple.
"You should learn from the family of Omar. Their daughters dress properly. You will never hear a girl from that family talk or behave like you."
I froze.
"The old-money family?" I asked.
She nodded, suddenly calmer, as if gossip soothed her.
"Yes. They have an older brother — very disciplined. He would never allow this kind of nonsense."
I scoffed.
"That's not discipline. That's enslavement."
She stared at me as if I had grown two heads.
"Slave?" she snapped. "You must be stupid."
"Ay, ay, mother," I said, standing up. "I need to go."
"You stay in your room too much," she added sharply. "That's why you behave like this. You need to change your ways."
I gave her a brief side hug — awkward, distant. We had never been close.
"Okay, mother," I said. "I'll try my best."
I was halfway up the stairs when her voice cut through the house again.
"I almost forgot. There is a family event next week. You must attend. No excuses."
I groaned.
"But mother, you know I don't like people."
She shrugged.
"It's not my decision. Everyone must attend."
I could already imagine it — relatives examining me like a project that had gone wrong.
You're 22 now.
When will you get married?
Do you have a boyfriend?
My son likes you.
On and on.
One of my cousins got married at eighteen. She already had two children. They called it success.
"And make sure you dress properly," my mother added sharply. "Don't dress like a bitch."
I didn't respond.
I walked back up the stairs, my chest tight, my thoughts burning. When I reached my room, I slammed the door shut. The sound echoed through the mansion like a challenge.
I stood there, breathing hard, and made myself a promise.
No matter what, I would not let them choose for me.
Not my relatives.
Not tradition.
Not even my mother.
They ruled their children's lives.
They would not rule mine.