Not intentionally - she’s not that dramatic - but there it was: one smoking toaster, one charred object that used to be bread, and one 84-year-old woman sitting at the table in a faded floral robe, looking like the queen of questionable life choices.

“You look tired,” she said, stirring her tea with a level of judgment usually reserved for restaurant inspectors.

I’d been in the house twelve minutes.

Behind me, movers were wedging my mattress through a stairwell that was clearly designed by someone who hated comfort. My phone kept buzzing with work messages I didn’t want to read. And my mother, who can’t remember whether she’s eaten, remembered exactly how to size me up with a single raised eyebrow.

“Well,” she added, the corner of her mouth curling, “welcome to the real world.”

It was the tone - half punchline, half prophecy - that made me pause. Because it wasn’t new. She’s been saying it my whole life. I just never thought it applied to me.

Not yet, anyway.