“When is Rick going to be here?” my mother asks, referring to my husband.
“I don’t know, Mom,” I answer patiently. “He’ll be here for dinner.”
I sigh and get up from the table. This is at least the tenth time she has asked that question in as many minutes.
While my mother and daughter play Monopoly, I busy myself making a salad.
“Don’t put in any onions,” Mom says. “You know how Daddy hates onions.”