The Temperature of Love

"This is a notice regarding proper use of the air conditioning. Please sign to acknowledge receipt."

My six-year-old son stood there with a stern little frown, slapping a sheet of paper down in front of me.

I glanced at the page. Written in colorful marker were several neatly listed "charges." The whole thing felt absurd.

When I did not respond, he pointed at the paper like a tiny adult.

"Mom, you didn't turn the air down in time yesterday. That could've affected my health. It was very irresponsible."

I looked toward my husband, who had just gotten home from work, hoping he would say something, anything, in my defense.

Instead, he snatched up the paper and slapped it down on the table, his voice sharp.

"Can't you be more attentive? Our son's health comes first. If you can't even handle something this simple, what kind of mother are you?"

With someone backing him up, our son's eyes immediately reddened. He burst into tears.

"Mom doesn't love me!"

The two of them, playing judge and jury, left me suddenly breathless.

"Fine," I said at last. "If I'm such an unfit mother, I'll leave. Let your father find you a new one, someone who knows how to set the air conditioning properly."

"Leave? Suzy, is that all you know how to say when you're mad?

"Look at you. You spend all day stuck at the stove; no wonder your brain's gone mushy. Do you even know what era we're living in? It's all about scientific parenting now. Precision. Data-driven systems. Do you understand that?"

My son Adrian Gibson peeked out from behind Harry Gibson, his little head bobbing hard in agreement. "Dad's right. Larisse said families like ours, with this old-school parenting style, should've been phased out a long time ago."

Larisse Baker, again.

She was a lecturer at some high-end family education seminar Harry started attending recently.

Ever since he paid fifty thousand for her course, our home turned upside down.

My meatloaf used to be Adrian's favorite.

Then it was labeled "high-fat, high-sugar junk food that harms brain development."

Taking Adrian to the park to run around used to be the highlight of his day.

Then it was "inefficient exercise that fails to engage core muscle groups and wastes valuable time."

Our walls were covered in charts.

Adrian's "Daily Nutrient Intake Sheet", "Hourly Activity Schedule", "Emotional Fluctuation Log. Everything had to be measured. Everything had to be precise. Everything had to meet what Larisse called "elite family standards."

Me, the woman of this house, somehow became the most flawed part of the system. The one piece that needed fixing.

"I don't care about Larisse."

"Adrian, I'm your mom. You've had the air conditioning on for too long. I turned it down a little because I didn't want you catching a cold. Is that wrong?"

"Of course it's wrong." Adrian shot back immediately.

"Larisse said a constant temperature environment ensures optimal physical condition and learning efficiency. You adjusting it without permission disrupts data stability. That's irresponsible for my development.

"You just don't understand science."

I looked at Harry without thinking.

"Suzy, stop making a scene. Why are you arguing with a six-year-old? He understands more than you do."

"Larisse is a professional. She has dual master's degrees in psychology and nutrition from top universities. Her closed-loop family management model has won international awards.

"Here's what we'll do. Next Saturday, Larisse is coming over to evaluate our home environment. You should sit in and learn something. Update those outdated ideas of yours.

"Don't embarrass me in front of an expert."

With that, he took Adrian's hand and turned toward the study.

"Come on, Adrian. Let's review today's learning data. Ignore your mom. She's just like one of those narrow-minded women stuck in an alley. All hair, no brains."

The study door slammed shut behind them.

…

I did not sleep all night.

The next morning, I did not wake up at five thirty like usual to prepare Harry and Adrian's carefully calculated breakfast.

That breakfast, measured down to 0.1 grams of salmon and exactly three blueberries, made me feel sick just looking at it.

I slept until my body finally woke on its own.

When I walked out of the bedroom, Harry was in the kitchen, frantically searching through cabinets.

Adrian sat at the table, lips puffed out, looking wronged and miserable.

The moment Harry saw me, his frustration found its target.

"Suzy, do you even know what time it is? You finally decided to get up? Where's Adrian's breakfast? Are you doing this on purpose just to go against me?"