Mark entered the room and looked from his mother to the spoon.
“Mom, do you really think she’s joking?”
“Entirely.”
“And there is nothing wrong with what you just did?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay,” he said.
Later that night Mark leaned towards me and whispered:
“Don’t worry. I know how to prevent this. Be in the kitchen tomorrow morning.”
I was curious about his plan, but I let him turn off the light.
Perhaps he would finally be able to explain it to her without further arguments.
The next morning, Diane was sitting at the kitchen table when Mark appeared carrying a breakfast tray under the polished metal dome.
“What is this?” she asked.
“I thought I would take care of my mom this time.”
Delighted, she lifted the cover.
Her smile disappeared immediately.
“What is this?”
The toast was limp in the center, its browned edges surrounded by a dark, soggy spot. The sausages looked fatty, and one had a flattened tip.
