“Mom!” the boy said, trying to hurry his mother, who was,
in his opinion, puttering.
“Yes dear, I’m coming,” she said, continuing to put
things away in the kitchen.
“We’re going to be late!” the boy said, his voice
cracking with irritation.
“Honey, the dance doesn’t start for over an hour. We aren’t
going to be late.”
Her tone exasperated the boy. He could picture her
expression. She let her mouth stay open slightly at the end of her sentence and
was looking over the rims of her glasses.
He shook his head in frustration and went into the
kitchen.
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