Mom's fingers deftly twist and turn my hair, pinning it into some sort of elaborate style. Her touch is clinical, devoid of any maternal warmth, as she secures each lock into place with sharp tugs.
She's been doing this for hours, trying to figure out the best style for the mating ceremony. The only comfort I have is in knowing she'll never have the chance to dress me as planned.
"Honestly, Ava, couldn't you have made more of an effort with your appearance?" she chides, as disapproving as always. "Your hair is little better than a rat's nest."
This is something she's said at least three other times in the hour she's been here. I bite back the retort that hovers on my tongue, knowing better than to provoke her ire.
