The scene is replayed

Ron swallowed.

His palms were still a bit sweaty. His jaw still ached from how hard he had been holding it when his mother, the real one, had been yelling at him. He could hear her on the other side of the door. Not talking. Just there. One woman in a powersuit holding a report card, ready to walk back in and be polite about him ruining his life because the director had said so.

He should have deleted the app. He should have thrown the phone in a drawer. He should have thought about what it meant that his mother had used her own name like it belonged to a character. But there was only one problem, he was starting to like the power he had over her.

He stared at the closed door instead.

Any second now she would open it again. Same bun. Same blouse. Same hips. Same mouth. Different temperature, if she meant what she had promised. Lenient. Soft. Angry, maybe, but polite about it. Take two of the worst morning of his week, rewritten because he had clapped like an idiot and she had called him director with a straight face.

Ron’s thumb hovered over his phone.

He just waited for Judith Shaw to walk back into the room and start the scene.

The door opened again.

Same click of the handle. The same Judith walking in like the room belonged to her. The grades were still in her hand. The bun was still tight. The suit was still the suit. For a second Ron thought she had ignored him and come back as the same bitch who wanted him on the street.

Then she spoke and it was not that.

“Ronald.” She said it softer this time, disappointed. Softer around the edges in a way that made his skin itch. “I am not happy about these grades. I need you to hear that.”

She stood in front of him and let the paper hang at her side instead of shaking it in his face.

“I have been thinking about what to say,” Judith went on. “I think it’s time for you to leave. I do not want you to hear that as me throwing you away. When I was your age I did not have someone standing here making it easy. I had to figure it out. That is what made me who I am. If I offer you the chance to stand on your own, it is because that is how I became self-sufficient. That is how I built a life. I am trying to give you the same thing, even if it does not feel kind.”

Ron stared at her.

Lenient. Soft. Polite. Just like he had asked. And it still sat wrong in his chest. She was disappointed, yes, but she had dressed the threat up as a gift. Still talking about her success. Still making his failure a lesson with her name on it. The power from the clap was still humming in his mind and this version of her was not enough. He had told her to ease up and she had eased up and he was still the kid getting coached by the woman in the powersuit.

His anger boiled up to the surface.

He clapped again.

Harder this time. Bringing both hands together like he meant it.

Judith stopped mid-sentence. The earnest look stayed on her face for a beat too long, then broke into something smaller. Confused. A little scared and he was drunk enough on the last ten minutes of power to enjoy that.

“What now?” she asked. Quiet. “Did I–”

“Shut up,” Ron said.

She did.

That was the part that did it. His mother, Judith Shaw, stood with her mouth closed because he told her to.

“You think that was better?” He stepped in closer to her without meaning to. “You think wrapping it in a speech about how amazing you are makes it softer? You still cannot go five minutes without reminding me you pay for everything. You still cannot talk to me without making it about you.”

Judith’s fingers tightened on the paper. She did not raise her hand. She just stood there and took it, brown eyes wide.

“I asked you to be polite,” Ron said. He could hear himself getting uglier and he did not stop. “Not to give me a TED talk. You walk in here with your little suit and your little watch and act like I should be grateful you did not scream. You were going to kick me out. Then you come back and call it an opportunity. That is not soft. That is you needing to be the hero in your own scene.”

Her throat moved. She looked like she wanted to answer and did not know if she was allowed.

“Do you have any idea how exhausting you are?” he said. “You stand there looking like that and talk down to me like I am twelve. You talk over me. You shove that single mother shit in my face every time I breathe wrong. And now you want a cookie because you said it nicer?”

“Director–” she started.

“I said shut up.”