Then, I watched in disbelief as my mother’s demeanor changed entirely. Her gentle touch with the blanket turned into a harsh tug as she grabbed my son’s arm, her face shifting from serene to stern. I held my breath, trying to make sense of what I was witnessing. Her voice, usually soft and comforting, became cold and demanding.
“Stop being such a crybaby,” she scolded, her eyes narrowing. “You need to learn to behave.”
My son flinched, his small body tense with fear. It was a side of my mother I had never seen, a side I couldn’t have imagined. A knot formed in my stomach as I watched her continue to berate him over minor things — a toy left out of place, a crayon on the floor. I realized with horror that this was the “weird” behavior my son had been trying to tell me about.
