“Andrew,” my mother said plainly and painfully. “I just really don’t feel like going this afternoon.”
I am no stranger to the fickle winds of mental illness under whose duress mom and I are often under. I told her not to worry about it at all and to go back to sleep. I was actually content to spend a lazy late afternoon on my computer.
“At least, drive over here and get twenty dollars,” my mother persistently implored of me. “It will buy you a good supper in compensation.”
I went to Rodger’s Barbecue across the Chattahoochee and got a barbecue pulled pork plate. Certainly overpriced, but it was absolutely delightfully delicious. I had enough money left to buy another pint of the vinegary barbecue which Maggie partook from when I arrived home.