“You’re fifteen years old, Michael, fix your own lunch,” his mother said from her home office.
Grumbling moving down the hall and a slammed door made her smile. As she typed her business memo, a smile stuck in its place. He’s too old for you to keep doing everything, she told herself. You’re a great mother, and he’ll be a self-sufficient adult in no time, she thought.
Sounds of her excellent parenting filtered down the hall. Refrigerator door opening and closing, microwave beeping, and the unmistakable sound of the soda cans rolling to fill the empty space put an even larger smile on her face. Grumbling rolling past her office door, and the slamming of his made her chuckle.
Her stomach growled as she typed, and when she was done with the memo she went to the kitchen to prepare her own lunch.
She stood outside the kitchen, mouth open, and eyes wide. How! How could one boy make this much mess? Pickle juice dripped off the island onto the floor, bits of hard boiled egg dropped from the ceiling, and the microwave oozed red liquid. The open bag of bread stood as a silent witness to his terror, but it wept as slices fell to the floor.
Michael laid on his bed and listened to his mother’s gasps and expletives as she cleaned up the mess. He opened his Turkey & American Lunchable and smiled. She’ll never ask me to make my own lunch again, he told himself.