“Sophie, darling, did you remember your umbrella? The forecast says forty percent chance of showers today.”

I sighed and glanced at my phone. My mother had already called twice this morning, and it wasn’t even 8 AM yet. At thirty-five years old, I still couldn’t escape her daily weather updates.

“Yes, Mom. I have an umbrella, a raincoat, waterproof shoes, and I’ve waterproofed my bag. I even have a change of clothes at the office.”

“Well, you never know with these forecasts. Remember when you got caught in that downpour three years ago and caught pneumonia?”

“It was a cold, Mom. Not pneumonia.”

“It could have been pneumonia! Dr. Winters said your lungs sounded congested.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling the familiar tension headache beginning to form. “Mom, I really have to go. I have a presentation in thirty minutes.”

“Alright, sweetie. Good luck! Call me when you’re done, and we can discuss what you’re making for dinner. I found this wonderful new recipe for quinoa—”

“Bye, Mom. Love you.” I hung up before she could continue, feeling the usual mix of guilt and relief that followed our conversations.

My mother, Diana Chen, was the embodiment of helicopter parenting before the term was even coined. From monitoring my food intake to installing a tracking app on my phone (which I’d only recently managed to “accidentally” disable), her love came with constant surveillance.

As I walked to the subway station, my phone buzzed with a text message.

Did you take your vitamins this morning? The zinc ones, not just the multivitamin. Your immune system needs extra support during presentation days.

I didn’t bother responding. Another text quickly followed.

I left a package at your door this morning. Immune-boosting tea and some homemade energy balls. Much better than those processed protein bars you buy.

I loved my mother—deeply, truly—but sometimes I fantasized about moving to a remote island with no cell service. Of course, knowing my mom, she’d probably learn to send smoke signals or train carrier pigeons to check if I was wearing sunscreen.

The irony wasn’t lost on me that as the head curator at the Metropolitan Museum’s Asian Art department, I spent my days preserving and protecting priceless artifacts, while unable to preserve the boundaries of my own life.

My presentation went well, despite the incessant buzzing of my phone in my pocket. Six text messages and two missed calls by the time I finished. A new record.

“Your mother again?” asked Raj, my assistant curator, as we walked back to our offices.

“How did you guess?” I rolled my eyes, scrolling through the messages. “She wants to know if I remembered to use my inhaler before the presentation.”

“You don’t have asthma.”

“I had a cough when I was seven. In her mind, that e