"You take it easy," she said, her voice tender. "Mom will cook all your favorite dishes. Let your dad handle the milk powder. You haven’t been feeling well lately, so don’t push yourself too hard. When Elysia gets back from the hospital, she can take over looking after the baby."
As she turned to leave, her eyes caught something by my pillow—a small pile of hair. She quietly picked it up and tossed it into the trash, her movements deliberate.
"It's normal to lose hair," she muttered, more to herself than me. "Don’t overthink it. Just take care of yourself, and it’ll get better with time."
Her concerned nagging made my lips curl into a faint, indifferent smile.
"Mom, I’m an adult now," I said lightly. "You don’t have to keep worrying about me. Go take care of your own things."
When I was younger, I believed every parent loved their child this way—selflessly, endlessly. It wasn’t until I started school and casually shared stories about my family with my classmates that I realized how unique my situation was.
Their envious looks told me everything. For many of them, home was a place of "stick education," where discipline overshadowed affection.