Chapter 7
When I get home my mother looks distracted. She asks about my day and what I did at the mall, but I can tell her mind is elsewhere. I put on my new purchase and model for her. She nods and smiles, but she’s got this odd look as if she were seeing right through me.
Fine, whatever, I say to myself. Be that way. They’re just a pair of jorts. It’s not like I cured cancer or something.
I do my homework and then eat the dinner my mother has kept warm in the oven: baked chicken breast and mashed potatoes with gravy. She takes a salad from the refrigerator. I eat while watching Doctor Who on TV.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask, between mouthfuls of mashed potatoes.
“He’s working late, honey.”
“He’s doing that a lot these days.”
“I know.”
She sounds sad. Or maybe it’s my imagination.
People
