I glanced at my mom, searching for a sign of resistance.
Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, a small act of defiance in its own way.
The conversation continued, the topics ranging from finances to renovations.
Each decision felt like another piece slipping away, another shift in control.
“We need to be practical,” he said, his tone leaving little room for argument.
But practicality felt like a facade, a means to an end that served his interests.
I wanted to speak up, to voice my concerns, but the words seemed inadequate.
I could feel the pressure building, a silent storm waiting to break.
The room was filled with the sound of rain, a steady rhythm against the windows.
The meeting wore on, each minute stretching into eternity.
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