I almost appreciated the gesture.
“And you’re STILL in bed?”
Then she said, “You always DID get dramatic when you’re sick.”
Angela had a talent for making an insult sound almost conversational.
During my marriage to Nathan, she’d asked whether I really needed a cleaning service after our second child was born.
“You always DID get dramatic when you’re sick.”
She’d once picked up one of Nathan’s shirts and said, “You know, ironing takes five minutes if you care how your husband looks.”
Another time she’d tasted my lasagna, smiled, and said, “Well, at least the children seem to like it.”
Nathan usually rolled his eyes afterward.
“That’s just Mom.”
“You know, ironing takes five minutes if you care how your husband looks.”
And because I didn’t want every family dinner becoming an argument, I usually let it go.
That turned out to be a mistake.
The doorbell rang downstairs.
“That’s dinner,” I said. “Could you please bring it in?”
Angela frowned. “Dinner?”
“I ordered food.”
“You ORDERED it?”
“Yes.”
“That’s dinner… Could you please bring it in?”
Ten minutes passed.
Then 15.
The kids weren’t arguing over pasta.
Nobody had brought me my soup.
Finally, I pushed myself out of bed.
My legs were completely shot by the time I made it downstairs.
I followed the kitchen light.
Angela stood beside the trash can.
My legs were completely shot by the time I made it downstairs.
The restaurant containers were inside the garbage.
The pasta.
Nathan’s steak.
The side dishes.
Even my unopened soup.
“Angela?”
She turned calmly.
“What are you even doing?” I sputtered.
She wiped her hands with a paper towel.
“Saving my son from eating that garbage.”
The restaurant containers were inside the garbage.
For a second, I thought the fever had made me misunderstand her.
“You threw it away?”
“Of course!”
“Why?”
Angela glanced toward the stove.
“Because someone around here needs to remember what a kitchen is for.”
I stared at her.
“That was $90 of food.”
“Because someone around here needs to remember what a kitchen is for.”
“And whose money paid for it?”
“Our money,” I blurted out.
“Meaning my son’s money.”
I couldn’t believe she had actually said it.
I lowered my voice because the kids were in the living room.
“Angela, I am sick.”
“So?”
“So Nathan told me to order dinner.”
“Angela, I am sick.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Of course he did. He babies you.”
