She argued with me about that. I won.
The next Thanksgiving, one year later, we had dinner in her new bedroom. Just the two of us. Turkey from the grocery store. Pie from the bakery down the street.
She held up her glass of sparkling cider with a shaky hand.
“To my son,” she said. “Who came home early.”
“To my mom,” I said. “Who’s sleeping in a real bed.”
She laughed so hard she cried.
THE END.
