Oh, doctor, thank you for seeing me this late. I’ve been so worried I can’t sleep. I’ve been up all night just wringing my hands.

You see, it’s my son. He’s very woke.

His microaggressions are growing weaker by the day. His appetite for calling women on the Internet “dumb sluts” is practically nonexistent. And oh God almighty — he’s been coughing up Martin Luther King Jr. quotes in his sleep. “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere!” he screamed last night.

Something is very, very wrong.

I don’t know what happened. Just last week I heard him cracking “feminazi” jokes with his friends and rapping along gleefully to Kendrick lyrics like Damn was an album specifically engineered by a team of scientists to measure how many liters of sweat men could soak into their Reagan-Bush tanks per every all-white house party. He was so carefree!

And now? Oh, it’s awful. He’s quoting Marx. He’s boycotting confetti guns. He got his fraternity to sign union cards and now they’re demanding $15 every time they get too drunk and the university assigns them mandated community service. He called me on the phone last week just to tell me my GOD BLESS AMERICA pillow was a product of the military-industrial complex. He still raps along to Kendrick, but he also taped a think piece to the fridge.

You have to do something, Doctor — and quick. I told my son his newfound behavior was bringing me to the edge of hysteria, and he said “Did you know the root hystera comes from the Greek word for uterus,” and handed me a Gloria Steinem book.

No mother should have to see their child like this.

Doctor, please. I used to have dreams for my son. I thought he’d graduate college. Start a career. Maybe find a nice girl to catcall and settle down. But he’s not the same person anymore, and I miss my son. I miss his MAGA hat. I miss his men’s rights vlog. I miss the way his nose crinkles up when he says fast food workers don’t deserve a living wage. The assuredness in his voice when he announces that healthcare is a privilege and not a right. The glinting leather seats of the Jeep his dad bought him. What if I never get these things back?

Now I don’t know if you have a family. I don’t know if you have a son or daughter waiting for you at home, and if you do, I don’t know if you’ve ever had to deal with them being woke, or liberating your spouse’s man cave, or using the word “antifa” at a family gathering and immediately sending your 85-year-old mother-in-law into a stress-induced coma.

But you have to help. Now hurry, please. You must, before he finds out I sent for a doctor and says, “Oh, who is she?”