“Taste test?” I reached toward the frosting.
“Don’t touch it!” Laura caught my wrist. “That’s only for your mother!”
“Anything…”
“All right. Message received.”
Mom had criticized her cooking for months.
Once, Mom had poured Laura’s soup down the sink.
I’d found Laura crying afterward and told her, “That’s just how she is. Mom means well.”
Tonight, I assumed Laura wanted everything perfect to impress Mom.
“Message received.”
I wanted her to succeed.
***
Dinner went… well, it went.
Mom called the chicken overcooked while taking another helping.
She called the bread bland while buttering a second slice.
“I don’t know how you expect a baby to grow on this.”
I wanted her to succeed.
“Mom, the food is great,” I said, with a small laugh intended to soften the remark.
“Hmmph.” Mom reached for a second helping of potatoes. “You were raised on MY cooking. You ought to have better standards.”