The automatic doors of the airport terminal slid open, and I stepped out into the humid evening air, pulling my carry-on behind me. After three exhausting days of negotiations in Singapore, all I wanted was my own bed and a hot shower. My phone buzzed with a text from Marcus: "Outside terminal 2, Mom. Black SUV." I smiled despite my fatigue. My son had volunteered to pick me up without me even asking. At twenty-eight, Marcus had grown into such a thoughtful man—or so I'd believed. I'd raised him alone since he was three, after his father walked out on us. Every sacrifice, every sixteen-hour workday building my consulting firm from nothing, had been for him. I spotted the SUV and waved, my heart warming at the sight of my boy behind the wheel. But as I approached the passenger door, Marcus quickly rolled down his window. "Mom, wait—you'll need to sit in the back." I froze, my hand on the door handle. "What?" "The back seat. Sorry, it's just... Diana put this sticker on the dashboard, and she's really particular about it." I leaned down to peer through the windshield. There, prominently displayed on the passenger side, was a glittery pink decal that read: "WIFE'S SEAT ONLY - NO OTHER WOMEN (YES, THAT INCLUDES YOUR MOM)." My stomach dropped. "Marcus, surely you don't—" "Please, Mom. It's not a big deal, right? It's just a seat. Diana's been really sensitive since the wedding, and I don't want to upset her over something so small." Something so small. I stared at my son, searching his face for any sign of the boy who used to defend me on the playground, who'd once told a teacher that his mom was his hero. Instead, I saw a stranger—someone who'd been married for exactly three months and had already forgotten who'd sacrificed everything for him. "Fine," I said quietly, swallowing the lump in my throat. "It's just a seat." I climbed into the back like a passenger in a taxi, feeling the sting of tears I refused to shed. Marcus pulled away from the curb, chattering nervously about his week, about Diana's new job at the boutique, about their apartment. I barely heard him. I kept staring at that ridiculous sticker, its glitter catching the streetlights as we drove. "I brought gifts from Singapore," I said, interrupting his monologue about Diana's yoga instructor. "That designer handbag Diana mentioned she liked—I found it at the Orchard Road boutique. And those specialty teas you both enjoyed when you visited me last year." "Oh, Mom, you didn't have to do that." But his voice brightened considerably. "Diana's going to love the bag. She's been talking about it non-stop." Of course she has, I thought bitterly. In the three months since the wedding, Diana had made it abundantly clear that she expected gifts, attention, and absolute deference. And my son, somehow, had become her willing servant. When we pulled up to their apartment building—the one I'd helped with the down payment—Marcus finally met my eyes in the rearview mirror. "Would you like to come up for a bit? Diana's home." Every instinct screamed at me to decline, to go home to my own space where I didn't have to tiptoe around a twenty-six-year-old woman's insecurities. But this was my son. I'd raised him to value family, to maintain connections. How could I refuse without driving a wedge between us? "Sure," I said. "Just for a little while." The apartment was on the fourth floor. As Marcus unlocked the door, I heard music playing inside—something pop and upbeat. Diana appeared in the hallway, her blonde hair in a messy bun, wearing yoga pants and one of Marcus's old college sweatshirts. "Oh," she said, her smile fading when she saw me. "Elena. I didn't know you were coming." Not "Mom." Never "Mom," though I'd invited her to call me that a dozen times. Always "Elena," spoken with just enough chill to make it clear I was being kept at arm's length. "I picked Mom up from the airport," Marcus said, setting down my luggage. "She brought gifts!" I handed over the shopping bag, watching Diana's face transform as she pulled out the designer handbag—a Valentino rockstud tote worth three thousand dollars. For a moment, genuine delight sparkled in her eyes. Then, just as quickly, her expression shifted to something calculating. "It's nice," she said, turning it over in her hands. "Though I was hoping for the larger size. This one's a bit... compact." The bag was exactly the size she'd shown me in the photo she'd texted. I'd double-checked before purchasing. "I can exchange it," I offered, keeping my voice pleasant. "If you give me the receipt—" "Don't worry about it." Diana set the bag on the counter with a dismissive gesture. "I'm sure I can make it work. Marcus, honey, I'm starving. When's dinner?" Marcus glanced at his watch. "I thought we'd order something? Mom just got in, and I haven't had time to—" "Order?" Diana's voice rose slightly. "We've been ordering out all week. I'm sick of restaurant food. I want a home-cooked meal." An uncomfortable silence fell. I watched Marcus's face redden, saw him struggling to find a solution that wouldn't disappoint his wife. "I could cook something," I heard myself say. "If you have ingredients, I don't mind—" "Perfect!" Diana's smile returned, bright and sharp as a knife. "Marcus, show your mother where everything is. I'll be in the bedroom. Call me when it's ready." She disappeared down the hallway without another word, taking the Valentino bag with her. Marcus wouldn't meet my eyes. "You don't have to, Mom. Really." But we both knew I did. Because if I didn't, Diana would pout, Marcus would stress, and somehow, I'd be painted as the difficult one. So I rolled up my sleeves and surveyed their kitchen—noting the expensive appliances I'd given them as wedding gifts, the dishes from my own mother's china set that I'd passed down. I cooked chicken piccata with roasted vegetables and garlic bread, the kind of meal I used to make for Marcus when he was young, when it was just the two of us against the world. He set the table quietly, and I could feel the weight of things unsaid between us. When Diana emerged, drawn by the smell of food, she surveyed the spread with an expression I couldn't quite read. "Well," she said, sliding into her chair. "At least you're good for something." Marcus laughed nervously, as if she'd made a joke. But her eyes, when they met mine across the table, were cold and assessing. And I realized, with a sinking feeling in my chest, that this was only the beginning.