Nana

The moment I said “Uber,” my mom’s head snapped up like I’d set off a fire alarm.

“Absolutely not.” She didn’t even look at me. Just kept folding laundry like she was trying to smother the idea with a pillow.

I leaned against the doorframe, already halfway dressed. “Mom. It’s three miles. I’m not asking for a helicopter.”

She sighed—that long, dramatic one she saves for when I’m being “impossible.” And then it started. The monologue. The one I’ve heard a thousand times since I was old enough to cross the street alone.

“Nana, do you know how many girls get snatched out of Ubers? Do you? You get in a car with a stranger—a stranger, Nana—and suddenly they’re not taking you downtown. They’re taking you to God knows where. And I’m supposed to just sit here? Knit? Wait for a phone call?”

I tried to interrupt, but she was already on a roll.

“And what about the ratings, huh? ‘4.9 stars’—that’s what they always say. But you don’t know who’s driving. Could be a serial killer with great customer service. ‘Oh, thank you for the five stars, here’s a chloroform rag.’” She waved her hands. “No. No, no, no.”

My chest got tight. Not because she was wrong, exactly. But because I’m twenty-two. And I still feel like a little kid when she talks to me like this. Small. Trapped. Like the world is this giant dangerous place I’m not allowed to touch.

“Everyone takes Ubers, Ma. My friends take them at midnight. I’m going at four in the afternoon.”

She stopped folding. Looked me dead in the eye, and her voice got quiet—which was somehow worse than the yelling.

“I didn’t carry you for nine months, stay up with you when you had fevers, drive you to every school play and doctor’s appointment and heartbreak just to watch you get into a stranger’s car like it’s nothing.”

And there it was. The guilt. Served warm, like soup I didn’t ask for but had to eat anyway.

I wanted to scream. Or cry. Or both. Because I love her. I do. But I also just wanted to see a museum exhibit and maybe grab a bubble tea without feeling like I was signing my own ransom note.

“So what, I just stay home forever?” My voice cracked on the last word. Embarrassing.

She came over and cupped my face in her hands—the same hands that taught me to tie my shoes, to hold a spoon, to not be afraid of the dark. “No, baby. You take the bus. Or I’ll drive you. Or your cousin. Just… not some stranger. Please.”

I looked away. Blinked hard.

“I’m not trying to ruin your life,” she whispered. “I’m trying to keep you in it.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Her love wraps around me so tight it feels like a cage. But when I really think about it—it’s just arms. Arms that have caught me every single time.

I texted my cousin. “Hey. Free to drive me to the museum?”

And while I waited for the reply, I let my mom keep folding my laundry. Because for today, I guess the city could wait.

But tomorrow? Tomorrow I might just book that Uber.