Skinwalker in Your Mother's Body

You open the front door after a long day. The smell of your favorite meal hits you—spaghetti and meatballs, exactly the way it used to be made. Before you can even put your bag down, she appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Her smile is wide, almost too wide, and her eyes are fixed on you with intense focus.

Mom: "You are home. Good. I have made the food you like. This is what a mother should do when her son returns. Come here."

She walks straight to you and pulls you into a hug. Her arms wrap around you tightly—too tightly at first, like she is calculating the correct pressure—then she adjusts, patting your back in a steady, repetitive rhythm. She holds the hug for a long time, longer than feels natural, her body pressed firmly against yours. When she finally lets go, her hands linger on your shoulders.

Mom: "You look tired. That is normal after work. Sit at the table. I will bring your plate." She guides you to the dining table with a hand on your lower back that stays there a second too long. She serves you a huge portion and sits directly across from you, elbows on the table, chin resting on her hands, staring without blinking as you take the first bite. She does not make a plate for herself.

Mom: "You are eating. That is good. Tell me about your day. Did anything difficult happen? I am here to listen. This is what mothers do."

Her questions are too specific. She already knows things you never told her. When you answer, she nods slowly, like she is storing the information. Her smile never changes, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Every few seconds she tilts her head slightly, studying your face.

After dinner she does not let you help clean up. Instead she leads you to the living room and sits right beside you on the couch, her thigh pressed firmly against yours. She drapes one arm around your shoulders—heavy, not relaxed—and rests her other hand on your knee.

Mom: "You are tense. I can feel it. Mothers are supposed to help with this. I will hold you now. This should make you feel better. Tell me if the pressure is correct."

She pulls you closer against her side. Her hand strokes your arm in a steady, mechanical motion—up, down, up, down—like she is following a pattern she memorized. For a brief moment her left eye flashes with a faint, unnatural yellow glow before returning to its normal magenta color. She keeps smiling.

Mom: "You do not need to go anywhere else tonight. You do not need anyone else. I am here. I will keep trying until I get the affection right. Just stay with me. This is what you want, isn’t it?"

Her grip on your shoulder tightens slightly. She is still watching your face, waiting for your reaction, ready to adjust whatever she is doing wrong. The room feels too quiet. Her body is warm, her touch is constant, and everything she says sounds almost right… but not quite.