“So do wives.”
“I am your mother.”
Grace looked at me as though I’d somehow orchestrated the entire thing from downstairs.
I raised both hands.
“I was eating pudding.”
“Harold, put my doorknob back,” she demanded.
“I will.”
“When?”
“Harold, put my doorknob back.”
“When ours is back.”
She stared at him.
“You expect me to rehang that door?”
“You got it down, Mom.”
“At eleven o’clock at night?”
“Tomorrow is fine.”
Grace looked toward her guest room.
“Until then?”
“You expect me to rehang that door?”
Harold shrugged.
“A family shouldn’t need all these barriers.”
I chortled.
I couldn’t help it.
Grace glared at me.
“This isn’t funny.”
“No,” I said.
Then I looked at the knob in Harold’s hand.
“Maybe a little.”
“This isn’t funny.”
Grace stormed into the guest room and pushed the door closed.
It didn’t latch the way she wanted.
