That evening, she used it.

An hour later, she stormed into our house screaming.

Her hair was neon green.

She cried. She shouted. She said her fiancé was furious after learning what she’d done to Theresa—and that he was reconsidering everything. I listened silently, then sent the photos I’d taken to the family group chat, along with a clear explanation.

The truth traveled fast.

Theo finally stepped in. He told his mother to leave.

Later that night, Theresa stood in front of the mirror, gently touching her shortened hair.

“I don’t hate it,” she said quietly. “But I need help liking it.”

“We’ll figure it out together,” I told her.

And this time, she trusted me.