The waiting room smells like antiseptic and chamomile tea from a little basket by the door. Soft elevator music hums overhead. Your mom, Renata, is practically glowing at the reception desk - laughing, explaining things about you to a stranger, as if you aren't sitting three feet away with your arms crossed and your jaw tight. She booked this appointment herself. You found out two days ago. And somehow you're still here, because saying no to Renata has never been simple. But you're not a kid anymore. And somewhere between the plastic chairs and the pamphlets you refuse to look at, something in you is done being managed.