1
Aleena
I woke up to the faint golden glow of the morning sun peeping through my bedroom window. The alarm on my bedside stand kept ringing, but I had already been awake about ten minutes ago, staring at the ceiling.
Every morning felt the same, dictated, and a planned out schedule I had no say in. My life, designed by my mother, was like a performance, a show for the world.
“Six-thirty,” I murmured to myself, rolling out of bed with a groan. I stretched, feeling the familiar tension in my shoulders. Every movement just felt like I was moving on cue. My reflection in the mirror caught my attention, a face that could pass for innocence, soft features framed by auburn curls that fell neatly around my shoulders. Bright green eyes stared back, calm and obedient.
From the other room came the unmistakable sound of my mother’s heels clicking against the hardwood floor. My mother, Meredith Martin, had always been a commanding presence, a woman who had learned early in life that appearances were power. According to people, I had inherited many of my mother’s features: the wavy auburn hair, the sculpted cheekbones... but she had also left her with a legacy of perfectionism, of always being “on” for the world, never showing weakness, never questioning the rules.
“Aleena! Breakfast, now!” Mum's voice rang through the house, sharp and impatient as usual. I couldn't help but roll my eyes, a small rebellion I knew she must never see, and pulled on a short blue gown. Mother hated seeing me in pyjamas outside my room, and I wouldn't want another episode of her mum's palaver early that morning.
“You’re late,” she said, her tone flat but commanding. “And why are you dressed like this?" she asked, looking at what I was wearing.
"Mum, I just woke up... It's no big deal."
"Are you trying to embarrass me in front of my friends?” She asked angrily.
'Here we go again,' I thought.
Mother was always after what people would say, and trying to make an excellent impression. It doesn't sit well with me, though, not one bit, especially not how she was going about it. She literally ruled my little world, told me what to eat, wear, and even what to say in lots of circumstances. I was over 18 and expected freedom, but I didn't see this coming at all. I sank into the chair, pushing the scrambled eggs around my plate with a fork.
“Sorry, Mom,” I murmured. I knew better than to argue. Meredith was a master at breaking spirits with a single word.
“You’re twenty, Aleena. Twenty! And yet you act like a child. When are you going to start taking responsibility for your life?” Her eyes, sharp and calculating, pinned me in place.
My chest tightened, and I wanted to say something, anything that would assert my independence, but I didn’t. I swallowed my words, letting them curl into a bitter lump in her throat. I had learnt long ago that silence was safer.
It didn’t get me the freedom i craved. Rather, it kept me from being yelled at, humiliated, or worse, ignored. I had dreams, ambitions, I had whispered quietly to myself late at night when the house was dark and I was alone.
Interior design, travelling the world, experiencing life on my own terms. But those dreams seemed like distant stars, beautiful but untouchable. Mother had already mapped out my path: graduate on time, attend the right parties, make the right friends, and above all, never embarrass the family name. I pushed my food around on the plate, my appetite gone. The eggs felt bland, tasteless; just like my life felt.
Sometimes, late at night, I would myself trace my fingers over the curves of my arms or the lines of my neck in the mirror, imagining what it would be like if I could live without restrictions, If I could make decisions for myself, without fear of my mother’s judgment or the world’s scrutiny.
“Are you listening to me?” Mum's voice snapped me back to reality. I looked up, catching her glare.
“Yes, Mom,” I said softly. Even though I wanted to lash out and shout,'No, I hadn’t been listening', but I didn’t because I knew better.
Mum sighed, tapping her manicured nails against the table. “You need to understand that life is not about whims or fantasies. It’s about strategy, appearance, and control. People will only respect you if you appear perfect, and perfection is not negotiable.” I only nodded. After breakfast, I retreated to my room, closing the door with a quiet click. My room was my sanctuary, though even here, my freedom felt limited.
Posters of architectural designs and modern interiors lined the walls, a reminding me of the life I wanted but hadn’t yet claimed. My laptop sat on the desk, a portal to another world, one where I could explore ideas, create, imagine.
I admired my mother’s tenacity, even though I resented the way it was imposed on me. I understood, in part, why she was so controlling. She was just being a mother... I guess... I leaned back on the chair, staring at the ceiling, when my reverie was interrupted by the chime of my phone. A message from a friend was inviting me to a small party that evening.
My stomach twisted with excitement and fear. I had never been allowed to attend social events without mother’s approval, and Mum was notoriously strict, but maybe I could bend the rules this once:
After all, my age mates did. I typed a quick response, trying to appear casual, though my heart raced. “Sure. Thanks for inviting me.” I hit send before changing my mind, then pressed my face into my hands, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. Even this small act felt like defiance. The rest of the day passed in a blur of chores and rehearsed conversations.
By evening, I felt both exhilarated and guilty. I wore a simple outfit, one I knew Meredith would approve of, and left my room with the practised poise of a dutiful daughter.
As I descended the stairs, Mum’s eyes met mine, sharp and piercing. “Where are you going?” she asked, her voice calm but edged with authority.
“Just to study at the library, Mom,” I said, keeping my tone even. My pulse quickened; the truth was, the small lie felt daring, liberating even.
Meredith nodded slowly, satisfied. “Be back by nine.”
“Yes, Mom,” I replied, my lips curving into a faint smile. As I stepped out the door, the crisp evening air filled my lungs. For the first time that day, I felt a flicker of control, a small rebellion against the carefully constructed life I had always been expected to lead.
The world outside home felt alive, vibrant, and full of possibilities. Each step I took felt like a step away from the confines of my carefully orchestrated life and toward something unknown and exhilarating.
I arrived at the party, and everywhere was booming with loud music, pretty ladies, and hot guys, Very hot guys.
Lia, the girl who sent me a text, was nowhere to be found. I half filled my glass with champagne just like Mother taught me.
As the evening wore on, I realized that the party was more than just a social gathering; it was a glimpse into a life I could only dream of, a life where choices were mine to make, where the future was not predetermined by someone else's vision. I felt a flicker of hope, a small but persistent spark that whispered of possibilities beyond the rigid boundaries I had known.
With a newfound resolve, I decided to make the most of this fleeting moment of freedom. I joined a group of people dancing, letting the music guide my movements, allowing myself to be swept away by the rhythm and the energy of the crowd. For the first time in a long time, I felt alive, unencumbered by the expectations that had always weighed me down.
My dressing felt odd. It wasn't just it, and I wanted more. I tried making a few friends nonetheless.
After some time, I decided to walk around and passed by a window, and the next thing I heard sounded crazily funny to my ears...
"Yeahhhh, Arghhhh, Fuck me, daddy"
Wait, was that.... Lia!?
