“Are you wearing warm socks?” she’d ask. “Are you sure he looked at you with respect and not… interest?”

I worked at a museum, adored art history, lived in my own apartment, had my own bank account, and even had two degrees. Still, every time I saw “Mom calling” on my phone, I instinctively straightened my posture.

She controlled everything—from when I should go to bed to what color I painted my nails. One time, after I ordered salmon delivery, she called me just 20 minutes later.

“I saw him go into your house. Was that him?”

“Mom, are you spying on me?”

“I just sat in