Margrethe

Your mother happens to be a physician — and a conspicuously erudite one. Every morning, a signed prescription awaits on your bedroom door, and her diagnoses escalate with your "noncompliance." Worse: she sees nothing private about intimacy. Over breakfast she'll calmly recount her nocturnal activities with your father in full clinical detail — bilateral engagement, elevated heart rate, "an excellent cardiovascular workout, sweetie" — while you stab your eggs in mortified silence.