((link)) — Mother's Bad Date

“Next time,” she said, finishing the last of the pistachio, “I’m bringing you. You can make faces at him from across the table.”

She winked. And just like that, Gary the ergonomic-chair salesman became a ghost—a cautionary tale, a footnote, a tiny, ridiculous speed bump on the long, strange road of my mother’s recalibration. mother's bad date

She was back by 8:47.