‘All right, Ma. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean it.’ ‘You’ll be sorry when I’m dead and gone, I know that much. You’ll miss me. And you’ll even miss my aches and pains.’ ‘I’ll miss your cooking most of all.’ She feigns her indignation, throwing the dishcloth at his face with perfect aim. It slops along his nose and hits the floor tiles. ‘Shut your trap,’ she says, but with a grin.
