24: Wrath of Mom
Logan
As I expected, the second my truck rolls into the driveway, my mom storms through the front door, rolling pin in hand and house shoes scooting across the pavement like a woman on fire. She is visibly fuming in the morning light, and I’m almost too afraid to get out.
I sigh, accepting the inevitable, and open my truck door. It takes no more than a second before my mom goes off on a vengeful rant about how cruel could I be to keep her up all night? To keep her worrying? What kind of son would do that to his mother?
The best I can do is apologize and offer to make breakfast. I even offer to do the dishes and clean the kitchen, which I rarely do because, like most people, I abhor doing them.
This does little to pacify her, but she does lower her tone at least a notch. She crosses her arms over her protruding stomach.
“And just what on God’s green earth were you doing all night?”