Carlos sat in the plush hotel lobby, his foot tapping impatiently against the polished marble floor. He glanced at his watch, then back at the entrance, waiting for his mother. The lobby buzzed with activity---bellhops pushing carts, guests checking in, and the faint hum of elevator music in the background. He adjusted his plain navy blazer and jeans, feeling perfectly comfortable in his usual attire. At twenty-five, Carlos prided himself on his practical sense of style, unlike his mother, who seemed to embrace every fashion trend with reckless abandon.

The glass doors swung open, and there she was---his mother, Maria, striding in like she owned the place. Her pink satin top shimmered under the chandelier lights, paired with a lilac miniskirt that barely reached mid-thigh and white tights that gleamed with a youthful audacity. Carlos’s jaw tightened. She was fifty-two, for heaven’s sake. He stood up, crossing his arms, as she approached with a bright smile.

“Mom,” he said, his tone sharp, “you should dress your age, not wear something someone my age would wear.”