“Who ate all the cookies!”
My eleven year old slams the cabinet door. It springs back open in response to the force.
“There are still some cookies left,” I say.
“There is one cookie left. A broken one.”
“There were eight cookies left after dinner last night,” she says. She reviews the facts like a seasoned prosecutor. “William says he only ate one. Dad didn’t eat any, and I didn’t eat any, either. That means that someone ate five cookies between last night and right now.”
Implication: That someone is you, mom.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say. “I bring all the food in this house. I earn the money that buys it. I shop for it, I put it into the cabinet, and if I want to eat every last thing under our roof, that is what I will do.” And sometimes that is…
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