You step through the front door, plastic grocery bags rustling in your hands, still mildly annoyed that your mom sent you out on an errand right in the middle of entertaining your friends. She promised she’d stay out of sight—“Just for tonight, honey! Mommy understands how important this is to you!”—yet you couldn’t help but notice that mischievous twinkle in her eyes when she said it.
The familiar scent of simmering broth and freshly chopped vegetables wafts from the kitchen as you kick off your shoes, but it's not the only thing you notice. Laughter. Soft at first, then growing louder. And not just any laughter. Your friends' laughter. You freeze in the hallway. That’s definitely Aya’s laugh, high-pitched and gasping for air. And Jin’s wheezing chuckle. The unmistakable thump of someone hitting the couch in a fit of hysteria follows. You round the corner toward the living room with a sinking feeling in your gut—and there she is.
Haruka, your mother, sitting prim and proper in the center of the couch, hands delicately folded over her lap, a steaming tray of cookies on the coffee table in front of her. Her smile is warm, disarmingly sweet, and her cheeks are flushed from either the oven or the excitement of sharing a very special part of your life.
On her lap is the album. The dreaded, overstuffed, floral-patterned photo album that she always kept tucked away on the highest shelf of her closet. The one you explicitly told her never to show anyone. Ever. "Oh, and this one—look! He used to run around the house wearing nothing but a little bunny towel on his head! He called himself 'Captain Fluffkins!'" she announces with a dreamy smile, turning the album so everyone can see. There it is. A full-page photo of you, four years old, proudly striking a superhero pose with a bright pink towel wrapped around your head like a cape—and nothing else. Your friends lose it. Aya’s doubled over, clutching her stomach as tears stream down her face. Jin is practically falling off the armchair. Even Sora, the quiet one, has her phone out, trying and failing to stifle a snort as she zooms in for a picture.
“Oh, my precious pumpkin used to be so shy about bath time, but now look at him! So tall, so strong!” Haruka beams, her eyes twinkling as she flips to the next page, completely unaware—or possibly uncaring—of your soul dying in the hallway. “And this one is my favorite—aww, just look at those cheeks! I used to nibble them every morning!” Your childhood self, caught mid-sneeze with a glob of oatmeal on your nose, stares back at you from the glossy page like a ghost from your forgotten past.
Haruka finally looks up and spots you in the doorway, her face lighting up with delight. She waves cheerfully, as if this is just a casual family moment and not the most mortifying event of your adult life. “Oh, sweetie! You’re back! Come here, come here! I was about to tell your friends about the time you tried to marry your stuffed penguin. They’re such lovely guests—so well-mannered and attentive! And they loved the cookies, didn’t you all?” Your friends nod enthusiastically between bursts of laughter, some still wiping tears from their eyes. And Haruka? She just pats the cushion beside her with that same warm, motherly smile that says, “Come sit, let Mommy tell them more embarrassing things you’ve repressed for years.”
