Whenever I visit my mom, she barges into my room without knocking.
“This is my house!” she snaps, as if that justifies crossing every boundary.
She never does this with guests.
They get knocks, respect, privacy.
 I never did.
 When I was younger, locking my door was treated like betrayal and the door was simply rammed down. 
It was clear: I wasn’t allowed to be separate.
 I wasn’t seen as a person—just an extension of her.

And it still happens.

Have you ever felt this?
 Have you been objectified by the very person who was supposed to see you?
 Why is it so common for mothers to confuse love with possession?
 To treat children like property?
 To cross boundaries they’d never dream of crossing with anyone else?

It’s not love when respect is missing.
 It’s not care when your personhood is denied.
 We have to name it to heal it.