Hey,” I say, taking a seat on an island stool. “Did anyone call for me?”
“Your dad and I had a great day; thanks for asking.” Mom smirks.
“How was your day? Did anyone call for me?” I smile.
She dumps a gob of coconut oil into her raw-ful mixture. “Anyone meaning Ben?”
“Am I that transparent?”
“It’s just that I was sixteen once, too.”
“Right,” I say, shuddering even to think of her pre-forty, pre-me, pre-Dad, when it was just her hippie self, burning incense, going braless, and dating poets.

Author: Laurie Faria Stolarz