The childhood home appeared—gravel combed into rows, hedges trimmed to identical heights, and window panes without a fingerprint in sight. Before they could knock, the door swung open. “Aaron,” his mother said warmly, then to Evelyn, “Welcome. Shoulders back, dear. Posture is part of first impressions.”
Inside, light fell on a hallway of perfectly aligned frames. In every photo, Aaron mirrored his mother’s posture at different ages—chins lifted, shoulders squared, and smiles tuned to the same polite wattage. Evelyn felt a hush in the air, the kind that follows rules even when no one speaks.