“You loved spaghetti Tuesday.”
“That was Tuesday.”
My son was seven, stubborn enough to negotiate with the weather itself, and currently wearing one sock because he’d decided the other was “too tight emotionally.” I turned off the burner and faced him.
“Close. The freezer.”
He did — but only after staring into it one last time, like a prisoner being dragged away from civilization.
“You’re the meanest mom ever,” he announced, and stomped down the hallway. His bedroom door slammed behind him.
I shook my head and went back to the sauce. Being a single mom meant choosing my battles carefully. Bedtime, I’d negotiate by ten minutes. Socks on the living room floor, I’d pretend not to see.
Dessert before dinner was not a negotiation.
Twenty minutes later, someone knocked.
I wiped my hands and opened the door to find a uniformed police officer standing on my porch. For half a second, I genuinely forgot how doors worked.
