Chapter 22 - Dinner
At eighteen, the night before I left for college, Mom made chicken.
I walked into kitchen.
Took a cookie from container.
She said:
“Save room.”
I froze.
Then laughed.
“What?”
“You said it.”
“Said what?”
“Save room.”
She realized.
“Oh.”
We stood there grinning like idiots.
Then I ate cookie.
Dinner twenty minutes later.
Nothing happened.
No consequence.
No lesson.
I was almost annoyed by how ordinary it was.
Trauma sometimes teaches you the end should feel cinematic.
May you like
It rarely does.
The best endings are boring.
