“Why can’t I see where you are anymore?” my mother asks.

Every time she does this, I play dumb rather than admit I have stopped sharing my iPhone location with her.

“My iOS must have updated,” I lie.

This must be how teenagers feel when their mothers ask the same question. Except I’m not a teenager; I’m 50.

“Oh, well, could you fix it?” she says.

“Sure, Mom.” And I turn location sharing back on again.

I first allowed my mother to track me when my husband, Drew, and I used to drive across the country. We lived in San Diego but owned a vacation rental in Florida and lived in each place for parts of the year. Sharing my location began as a safety measure; at least one person would know where we were in case something happened in the middle of nowhere. By following our daily progress, my mother would gain peace of mind.

When the road trip started to get monotonous, however — after we had seen all the National Parks and cool little towns along the way — Drew and I began flying instead. With no more cross-country treks, the pragmatic need to share my location disappeared. But it was too late; my mother had developed an expectation of my visibility.

Since then, we’ve established a routine: I stop sharing my location, she calls to investigate, then I feel guilty and start sharing again.

The need I feel to draw this boundary is not about privacy. I don’t go anywhere I don’t want my mother to know about. I do sometimes like to sneak off and get away, and there’s something freeing when no one knows my whereabouts. But truly, I have nothing to cover up.