"For your own good" was the most painful thing I ever heard. "It's for your own good." I wonder how many times I've heard those words. When I was little, I truly believed it was true. My mother was always kind. If I had a fever, she would look after me all night, and on my birthday, she would prepare the present I wanted. Teachers and neighbors would always say, "Misora's mother is such a wonderful person, isn't she?" Every time, I would smile and nod.

Because if everyone said so, I thought it must be true. But. "You're starting piano lessons today." As a young child, I tilted my head in confusion. "...But, I want to go to the drawing class." The moment I whispered that, my mother smiled. Still wearing that gentle smile. "You can draw at home, can't you? Piano will be more useful for your future." From that day on, my "wants" slowly began to disappear. Swimming. English lessons. Cram school. Ballet. Calligraphy. Before I knew it, my days were filled with a schedule my mother had decided. If I said I wanted to play with friends, "Studying is important right now." If I said I wanted to join a club,

"You don't have time for that." If I said I wanted to join the art club, "It's enough as a hobby." The way I wore my uniform. My hairstyle. My career path. My mother decided everything. "You have talent." "It's for your own good." "The day will come when you'll be grateful." I told myself over and over. Mother isn't wrong. I'm the one who's bad. If I try harder, she'll praise me. If I meet her expectations more, she'll smile. That's what I thought. But no matter how hard I tried, there was no end. If I got a 95 on a test, "You could have gotten those last 5 points, couldn't you?" If I won an award at a competition, "Weren't you number one?" If I cried,

"Crying over something like that makes you a weak child." If I smiled, "See, you can do it when you try." I wonder when I stopped understanding my own feelings. What is a dream? What does it mean to like something? What did I really want to do? One rainy day. On my way to my usual lessons, I found an old sketchbook lying on the ground. I absentmindedly flipped through the pages. There, someone's life was drawn. Children bound by the words "for your own good," just like me. Faces that looked pained even while smiling. The moment dreams are given up. Days where help cannot be asked for. With every page I turned, the story felt as if it were written about me. On the last page, there was only one sentence. "It's not the parents who choose a life. It's you." Those words moved my frozen time just a little bit. This isn't a story about hating parents. It's not a story about hurting someone. It's a story of a small step toward reclaiming "my life" instead of "someone else's life." And it's the story where I "choose for myself" for the very first time.

"Hey, Mom." Just saying those words makes my chest feel tight. "...I want to join the art club." Silence. Only the ticking of the clock echoed in the quiet living room. My mother slowly set down her teacup and looked at me with her usual gentle smile. "No." Her voice wasn't angry. If anything, it was kind. "But..." "It's for your own good." With that one sentence, my words were swallowed whole. My dreams. My hopes. My feeling of "wanting to do it." Everything. Today, too, I give a small smile and say, "...I understand."