I grew up under the care of a mother who measured every breath against the weight of the world. Not her world but the world. The same one made of watching eyes and whispering mouths. She passed it down to me and my siblings like an heirloom. Be careful. Be proper. Be aware of who’s looking. Because someone was always looking, according to her. As a young woman, I couldn’t run; I had to walk. Not too fast, not too free. I couldn’t leave the house without a chaperone — usually one of my brothers. A quiet reminder that my independence needed supervision. Time wasn’t mine either. Midnight was more…