It wasn’t my intention to create such a stir.
Or was it?
There were many reasons to season the exchange with something less bland than the weather of stocks and performance of bonds and predicted fluctuations of the markets.
So I told them I’m leaving.
“But dinner isn’t over!” Mom’s carefully drawn eyebrows rose into a crease that would likely be frozen by Botox by next week.
“You’ve not been excused,” Dad contributed parenting.
“I’m thirty-two,” I breathed. “I’m moving out.”
“On your own?” Mom’s voice turned acid.
I glanced down. Met liquid eyes. Inspiration dawned. “Nope, I’m taking Leon.”
And … dipping my pen for the first time into the Writers United prompt of “season”