The other day, when I questioned Elder about one of his classes, he answered then asked with honest confusion, “Why do you care?”

“Because you’re my son,” I responded. “Because I’m paying part of the bill.”

“Dad pays the bills.”

My mouth dropping open, I was unable to reply for a few, long seconds then I squeaked, “What do you think I work for? Popcorn?”

“Mom,” he replied, patiently. “Dad is the one who sits down and pays the bills.”

Of course, my literal son meant the statement literally.

And since we were on the phone and I haven’t actually mastered the art of reaching through a phone for his throat, he survived the misunderstanding.

Not that I’ve ever reached for his throat.

I mean, you know, literally.



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