From the outside, our home looked perfect—neatly trimmed hedges, coordinated dishware, and festive throw pillows for every season. But inside, everything had to align with my mother’s vision of “just right.” She expected people to fit a certain mold, and I always felt like I didn’t belong.
I’m Casey, 25 years old—a chef by profession and a filmmaker by passion. I’ve always found comfort in creating stories, usually the kind that bring strangers to tears in dark theaters. But the hardest story I ever had to face was my own.
As an only child, I often bore the full weight of my mother Janet’s high expectations. My dad, Billie, was my safe space—kind, funny, and the one who always made me feel understood. When we lost him during my junior year of high school, my mom’s grip on everything, including me, only tightened.
At dinner, her comments were subtle but sharp. In public, her remarks left me feeling self-conscious and small. I spent more time than I care to admit doubting myself, trying to be someone I wasn’t.
Continue reading on next page…