His stepdaughter came on Mother’s Day to visit her mother, his wife. She brought chocolates, gifts and her dog. His wife said she’d start cooking. His stepdaughter said, ‘I come all this way, and you’re in the kitchen’. There was room for two in the small kitchen. His stepdaughter was in the living room, lying on the couch. On the sofa. He said to his stepdaughter, ‘Are you taking her out somewhere? I can look after the dog’. She said she couldn’t because she, the dog, wouldn’t be safe. She might eat something poisonous or suffocating. (His stepdaughter’s previous dog died suddenly and unexpectedly on the back seat of the car. After that, she had a nervous breakdown.) They all agreed to a takeaway. He ordered, collected and paid for it. It was about £60. When his stepdaughter was getting ready to leave, his wife asked her to stay the night. His stepdaughter said she couldn’t because the dog had no food. He said he’d get some in the morning. She said, ‘No, it’s ordered online’. Happy Mother’s Day, motherfuckers.
Diary of an old boomer 