Old Red sat in the driveway dusted with snow. “Mom, why is the truck here when Dad isn’t?” Shoving the bedroom blinds aside, I stared below in disbelief. There it was–home from the airport but without its owner. Hmmmm….
“Benjamin Keith!” (Picture your own mother when she was angry…her brow furrowed; words waiting to spill from her drawn mouth.) I ran downstairs into the territory of tossed jeans, potato chip bags, and Axe cologne. A mop of disheveled hair and one skinny, hairy leg poked out from beneath the covers. “Ben!” A barely perceptible, “What…” came from the pile on the bed. “Tell me you didn’t go to the airport and take your dad’s truck.” “Yeah, I thought I’d pick him up after my appointment today.”
Visualize a calming place…count to ten…breathe. No. It didn’t help. “What were you thinking? You didn’t have permission to go to the long-term parking garage, locate the truck, and bring it home!” (At this point, the dialogue became monologue and I realized I can do a pretty good imitation of my mother when she’s upset.)
“Mom, I paid for the parking fee.” Not understanding the logic behind this statement, I shook my head in confusion. How can I know so little as the parent of an eighteen-year-old?
