The cashier nodded. She paid
him, took our groceries, and walked
out of the shop. I dropped the toffee
apple, ran out behind her in tears,
and caught up to her at the car. She
turned around, laughing
hysterically, like she’d really got me
good.
“Why are you crying?” she
asked.
“Because you said you weren’t
my mother. Why did you say you
weren’t my mother?”
“Because you wouldn’t shut up
about the toffee apple. Now get in
the car. Let’s go.”
By the time I was seven or