My ten-year-old son, who'd always been a handful — energetic, a bit spoiled, and about as interested in discipline as a cat is in bath time — cleared the dinner table without being asked.

He even rinsed the plates before placing them in the dishwasher, something I'd nagged him about for months with zero success.

"Thanks, bud," I said cautiously, drying my hands. "What's gotten into you?"

This was the same boy who'd spent the last year dodging responsibility like it was a contagious disease? I leaned against the counter, half-expecting him to pull off a mask and reveal himself as an imposter.

But he wasn't done. After dinner, he vacuumed the living room and then, unprompted, said no to his tablet before bedtime. No tantrums, no whining. Just... cooperation.

At first, I was thrilled. This was every parent's dream, right? A kid who pitches in? But as I tucked him in, smoothing his hair, unease crept into my chest like a draft under the door.

Something about his sudden transformation felt too neat, too practiced.

"Goodnight, Jack," I said, smoothing his hair.

"Goodnight, Mom." His voice had that same strange gravity it had carried all evening; too serious for a boy his age.

He pulled the blanket to his chin and added softly, "Don't worry so much."

I froze. "Worry about what?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, closing his eyes. "Love you."

I lingered, staring at him, trying to shake the feeling that something was slipping through my fingers. But I didn't push. Not yet.

By Tuesday, the house sparkled. Jack folded laundry while humming under his breath and kept his video game time to thirty minutes, a limit I hadn't enforced in months.

I cornered him after school, kneeling to his level. "Jack, you've been amazing lately. But… I need to know. Did Grandma say something this weekend?"

Jack's face twitched. "Kinda."