Evidently, Mom didn’t unplug the waffle iron. At least not right away. She made a whole batch of palm-sized heart-shaped waffles, joined by their angles in clover configurations of four. They’re stacked up and sitting there on the counter, under a curl of paper towels.
“Pop them in the toaster,” she says. She’s sitting at the kitchen table, which is full of a pile of note cards she is writing.
I carry the plate across the kitchen, tip the mountain of waffles straight into the trash bin.
Mom stares at me. I take a carton of orange juice and a summer sausage out of the fridge.
“It’s Sheila who liked waffles.” This is only to hurt Mom. No other reason.
I’m going back to bed.