“Yes. That is the fundamental economic principle of requesting emergency mechanical labor at ten o’clock at night.”
“This is completely ridiculous.”
I leaned back against the cool granite of my kitchen counter, staring at the ceiling. “Mom. Three hours ago, you sat at a dining table and decided that a heated pickup truck was perfectly acceptable, comfortable accommodation for your own grandchildren. Do not start complaining to me about ridiculous.”
“I have not started anything!”
“Your furnace did.”
She exhaled sharply, a sound of pure frustration. “This is my house, Rupert.”
“That is factually correct.”
“And as the homeowner, I should possess the fundamental right to have heat in my own home!”
“Also factually correct.”
“So get over here and help me!”
“No.”
Silence stretched across the cellular network. The kind of heavy, loaded silence that precedes an avalanche.
When Mom spoke, her voice was dripping with venom. “You do not possess the authority to punish me by deciding whether or not my house has heat.”
