The smell of frying eggs lingered in the air as I sat at the table, eating the toast my mother had just put in front of me. She hummed softly while moving around the kitchen, barefoot, her long hair flowing loosely down her back.
For a moment, it looked almost normal. A mother preparing breakfast for her child.
I chewed slowly, wondering how I should bring it up. Finally, I decided there was no point in hesitating.
"Mother," I said, putting my fork down, "I registered for America's Got Talent. The auditions are this month."
Her hand froze midway as she reached for a frying pan. Slowly, she turned her head toward me. Her lips stretched into a smile that was just a little too wide, a little too sharp.
"That's wonderful," she said in a singsong voice. "The whole world will see how perfect you are."
I nodded, pretending to be pleased at her reaction. "Yes. It could be useful for me. I want to—"
Her tone cut me off like a knife. "But don't forget, Adam… you belong to me. Only me."
She was standing very still now, her fingers pressed tightly around the handle of the pan. Her eyes glistened unnaturally, obsession radiating from her gaze.
The toast in my mouth turned tasteless.
"I… of course, Mother," I said, adjusting my tone to sound like a child trying to reassure her. "You're the most important. Always."
Her smile softened, but not in a comforting way. She came close, crouched down, and cupped my face with both hands. The warmth of her palms pressed against my cheeks. Her eyes shone like a predator's as she whispered, "Good boy. Remember that, no matter what anyone else says, you're mine first. Mine to love, mine to protect."
Her voice trembled on the edge of something darker. I forced a smile, though my mind was already working through possible ways to manage her fixation.
The rest of the day was quiet—almost too quiet. After breakfast, I helped clean the dishes, then retreated to my room to "practice singing." In truth, I needed the excuse to think.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I turned on the computer. The faint hum of the old machine filled the silence. I wasn't looking at the screen, though. My mind was caught on my mother's words.
You belong to me.
Obsession. Possessiveness. Delusion. Whatever it was, it wasn't healthy. A normal child might not notice, but I wasn't a normal child. I should just kill her—or better yet, turn her into a puppet. That way, I wouldn't become an orphan.
I shook the thought away. No… there's no need to go that far yet.
So I started to sing.
Later that afternoon, she knocked on my door and stepped inside without waiting for an answer. She carried a small tray of fruit, sliced neatly. Her beauty was almost surreal, a sharp contrast to the sharpness behind her eyes.
"You should eat more," she said sweetly, sitting beside me on the bed. "You'll need strength for your audition."
I forced a smile. "Thank you, Mother."
She fed me a piece herself, pressing it against my lips until I opened my mouth. I chewed slowly, watching her. Her expression was tender, but it was the kind of tenderness that wanted to own everything it touched.
"Do you really think I'll do well?" I asked cautiously.
Her eyes lit up like stars, almost feverish. "Of course. You'll shine brighter than anyone. They'll clap and cheer, but none of them will ever see the real you. Only I see you. Only I know you."
She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against mine. "You're mine, Adam."
I swallowed the fruit, my throat suddenly dry. "Yes, Mother."
The days blurred together after that.
Mornings: waking early, pretending to sleep just to rest my mind. Practicing songs in my room. Surfing the internet for information, hidden among mundane searches so she wouldn't notice.
Afternoons: Mother hovering near me, suggesting songs, critiquing gestures, adjusting my posture as if I were a doll.
Evenings: shared dinners where she spoke in dreamy tones about my future. Her words grew stranger by the day—about how the world would worship me, about how no one else was worthy to stand beside me, about how she would never let anyone take me away.
I laughed and smiled when I had to. But every night, when the house was quiet, I sat awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking.
Her obsession was both a shield and a cage. She wanted me to rise, but only if I remained hers. That contradiction would one day snap.
One morning, while sipping orange juice, I tried to test the boundaries.
"Mother," I said lightly, "what if I make friends at the show? It could help me, you know. Connections."
The glass she was holding tightened in her hand. For a moment, I thought it might crack.
Then she smiled. "Friends? Hm… maybe. As long as they know their place. As long as they don't think they can take you from me."
I chuckled softly, feigning innocence. "Don't worry. No one can."
Her eyes softened again. She reached out, brushing my hair aside like I was porcelain. "That's right. You're mine."
And so the pattern continued.
While she cooked, while I sang, while we sat in the living room pretending to be an ordinary family, the truth was always there—her obsession wrapping tighter around me, my mind weaving strategies to manage it.
I began to think of it like another performance. Every smile, every laugh, every obedient nod—it was a mask. One I had to wear flawlessly until the day came when I could step onto the real stage. Not just of America's Got Talent, but of the world.