Okay so, like, I don't even know if this is a thing anyone else deals with, but it's really starting to mess with my head. I mean, I feel kind of dumb even writing this, like, who cares, right? But it's 2 AM and I can't sleep and it's just... it's a lot. Every weekend. EVERY. WEEKEND. I go see my mom. And I know, I know, she's my mom, I should. My kids are grown, off doing their own thing, my wife, she's got her hobbies, you know? So I figured, okay, I’ll go see mom. She lives like, forty-five minutes away, which is far enough to feel like a drive but close enough that I don't have an excuse. I usually go Saturday morning, stay for a few hours. Have lunch, whatever. And it's not like she's a bad person. She's not. But man, the CRITICISM. It’s relentless. From the second I walk in the door. It starts small. "Oh, you're wearing *that* shirt again?" Like, yeah, mom, it's a shirt. It's clean. Then it moves to my hair, like, "Are you ever going to get a proper haircut? You look like you're trying to hide something." And I just want to be like, what am I hiding? I'm 52, I'm hiding bald spots probably! But I don't say that. I just... smile. Or try to. Then we sit down for lunch, and it's my job. Always my job. "Are you still at that company?" she'll ask. Like it's a surprise. I've been there twenty-five years, Mom. "I heard that new guy, what's his name, Mark? Isn't he doing really well? He got that big project, didn't he? You should talk to him, maybe he could give you some pointers." And I'm just sitting there, eating my sandwich, like, yeah, Mom, Mark, the guy half my age, is doing great. I manage a whole team of Marks, you know? But she doesn't get it. She just sees it as me not trying hard enough. Like I'm just coasting. Last weekend was a real doozy. I showed up, and she immediately goes, "Oh, you look tired. Are you getting enough sleep? You know, when you don't sleep, it really shows on your face. And you're looking a little... pasty. Have you been outside at all this week?" And I'm thinking, I spent twelve hours in meetings this week, Mom, no, I haven't been frolicking in a field of daisies. But I just said, "Yeah, a little busy." And she just sighs, you know? Like I'm being difficult. Then we were watching TV, and an ad came on for some investment firm. And she turns to me, real serious, and goes, "You know, you really should be thinking about your retirement. Are you sure you're saving enough? What about that pension thing? Is that even a thing anymore? Your dad always said you were too relaxed about money." My dad. Who passed away ten years ago. And suddenly I'm feeling like I'm twelve again, getting lectured for not cleaning my room or something. By the time I left, I had this knot in my stomach. Like a physical thing. And it stays with me, you know? For days. I get home and I'm just... drained. Like someone sucked all the air out of me. My wife will ask how it was, and I just shrug. Can't even talk about it. It makes me feel stupid, like I should be able to handle it. I'm a grown man, I manage people, I deal with high-stakes stuff at work. But this? This just guts me every time. And then I start to feel anxious on Friday afternoons, like, dreading Saturday. I try to make excuses sometimes, "Oh, I have to work," or "We're doing something with the grandkids," but she always sees right through it. Or I feel guilty for even thinking about not going. She’s my mother. She’s getting older. I should be there. But then I'm there, and it's just... the same thing. Over and over. I don't know what to do. Like, should I just stop going? But then what kind of son would I be? Or should I just grin and bear it? And keep feeling like this all week? I mean, I don't even— whatever. It's just... I wish she would just be happy to see me. Just once. Without all the other stuff.