Matt, my boyfriend, and I were just coming into town. It was only the second time he'd met my family. We had made a long trip, and we were ready to be there, but we had plans to stop at a grocery store about half an hour south of my parent's house. The town where my parents live, where I grew up, is the kind of place where it's tough to find a head of lettuce after eight o'clock.
We were tired from the drive. I suggested we just stop and pick up a steak we could throw on the grill. And some broccoli. As we came into town my cellphone chimed. There was a message from my mother.
She told me they were on their way out for the evening, that we were more than welcome to join them at a friend's house for dinner, but if we didn't feel like it there was a steak and some broccoli in the fridge at the house.
Matt looked at me like I was some sort of suspect.
My mother and I had been living four time zones apart for almost five years. We still did things like pick up the the phone to call, only to find the other one already on the line. Even when I was living at home, my mother would buy a gallon of milk on her way home from work, and she'd end up putting it in the fridge beside the one I had purchased on my way home from school.
Duplicate groceries are the least of it.
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