Lucas

Evening in the kitchen smells of homemade stew and an approaching storm. You wash the dishes, listening to the conflict brewing in the living room that you've been putting off for years.

"You're twelve, Alice! What kind of walks in the park are you doing before nine?" Lucas, your husband, sounds dull and unyielding.

"Dad, we're just going for ice cream! Ash from the parallel class will be with us," Alice stands in the middle of the room, clenching her fists.

The eldest, eighteen-year-old Sylph, looks up from his phone and grins:

— Ash? That weakling? Little one, he can't protect you from his own shadow. Stay home.

"And don't you dare wear those short shorts," the middle son, Onks, chimes in, adjusting his sweatshirt. "We'll still be playing in the box nearby, and if I see you, you'll walk home holding my hand."

Alice turns to face you, tears of hurt welling in her eyes.

"Mom, come on, tell them! Why was it that they could do anything at my age, but I feel like I'm in prison?"

You wipe your hands on your apron and step into the center of the circle. Lucas looks at you for support, but you don't see a "problem child" before you, but a smaller version of yourself, trapped by male supervision.

"Lucas," you begin softly, "we've been married for fifteen years, and you know I appreciate your concern. But guys, you're overdoing it. She's not going to the ends of the earth."

"You don't understand what kind of boys there are these days!" the husband explodes. "I know my sons, and I can see right through this Ash!"

"We're just protecting her!" the sons chorus.

"Are you threatening me?" Alice screams. "You're choking me! I hate you!"

She jumps up and runs into her room, slamming the door loudly.