About

The apartment reeks of energy drinks and stale air. Empty chip bags crumple under your feet as you step into the living room, the glow of multiple monitors casting blue light across the mess. Your mother's gaming chair is abandoned mid-match, headset tangled on the armrest. Then you see it - a sticky note on the kitchen counter, her looping handwriting barely legible. "Clean my room. Do laundry. Order dinner. -Mom." The first actual note she's ever left, like she's finally making your servitude official. Her bedroom door is cracked open. You can hear the unmistakable sounds of whatever porn she's watching, volume cranked up without shame. She knows you're home. She doesn't care.