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As we approached the familiar driveway, my heart pounded with a strange mix of anticipation and fear.
“Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise!” Mom exclaimed as she opened the door, her eyes sparkling with delight as she caught sight of Mike. “And who might you be, handsome?”
“This is Mike, Mom,” I introduced, shooting Mike a reassuring smile as she scrutinized him.
“Well, Mike, I must say,” Joan remarked with a cheeky grin, “You’re younger than I imagined!”
Mike was quick on his feet, matching her infectious humor. “And you look young enough to be Lina’s sister,” he shot back, his words met with an eruption of laughter from Joan.
Her laughter echoed throughout the house. I cast a final glance at Mike, a silent plea for support in my eyes. As he gave my hand a reassuring squeeze, I knew that despite the uphill battle that lay ahead, I was not alone.
Stepping into the living room, the plush couch cushioned my stress. Mike took his seat next to me, his presence a calming reassurance. The familiar photographs on the mantelpiece stared back at us, each capturing a moment from my childhood - the beaming six-year-old with missing front teeth, the pouting teenager, the jubilant graduate.
Seeing Mike glancing at the photographs, a playful grin spread across his face. "Hey, Joan," he started, looking over at my mom who was arranging snacks on the coffee table, "do you have any embarrassing stories of Lina from when she was growing up?"
"Oh, Mike," Mom giggled, "I've got enough to write a book!"
A slight sense of dread washed over me as I felt myself blush, but there was no escape.
"So this was when she was six," Joan started, chuckling to herself. "Lina had a phase where she wanted to be a bird. She would walk around the house, flapping her arms, and making squawking noises."
Mike's laughter filled the room. "Oh, I wish I could've seen that!"
"Oh, and that's not all," she continued, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "On her twelfth birthday, she wanted to cut her own cake, but the knife slipped. The cake ended up everywhere, but not a single piece landed on a plate!"
This time, even I couldn't help laughing.
"And then there was the time in high school when she was running for class president," she added, a smirk playing on her lips. "She was so nervous that instead of saying 'Vote for Lina', she shouted 'Vote for Tina'."
The room erupted in laughter. Despite my embarrassment, the warmth of the shared humor brought a comforting sense of belonging.
“Alright, Mom,” I interjected, rolling my eyes. “That's enough for today. And remember, these stories are strictly confidential.”
She simply winked, her laughter still lingering in the air.
The front door creaked open, signaling my stepfather, Ron's arrival. He stepped into the living room, his eyes shining with delight as he saw us lounging on the couch. "Well, if it isn't the dynamic duo!" he exclaimed, dropping his bag and approaching us with a grin.
Mom, in her flamboyant flair, rolled her eyes at Ron's entrance. "You're late. Dinner was ready an hour ago!"
Ron shrugged, a bemused expression settling on his face. "Well, darling, it's not my fault that traffic doesn't adhere to your dinner schedule."
Their bickering filled the room, a playful tennis match of words that had been played countless times over the years. Leaning over, Mike whispered, "They should take this act on the road. They're better than some stand-up comedians I've seen."
As I stifled my laughter, Ron shifted his attention to us. "So, what's new in the world of ads? Come up with any new jingles lately?" he asked, plopping down in the armchair opposite us.
"Actually," I began, "I don't write jingles. I create the idea and visual content for the campaigns."
Ron waved his hand dismissively, a smirk on his lips. "Potato, potahto. It's all the same. Fancy graphics, catchy tunes... you're basically just telling people to buy stuff they don't need."
Despite his flawed understanding, there was an amusing charm to Ron's blatant simplification of my work.
During dinner, the sweet scent of apple pie wafted through the dining room as we moved onto dessert. Ron took a second helping, his eyes twinkling with delight, while mom delicately dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin.
"You know, Ron," mom began, her voice casual, "It's interesting to think that next week this time, I'll be celebrating another year of fabulousness." She had a mischievous glint in her eye, and I knew exactly what was coming.
Ron blinked, his fork pausing midway to his mouth. "Oh, really?" he replied, feigning ignorance. I remembered last year, he had forgotten her birthday until the day itself.
Mom’s smile widened, and she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. "Yes, really," she teased, her eyes dancing with merriment. "And if there isn't a little something waiting for me next week, well...let's just say it won't be pretty." The subtle threat was veiled with a chirpiness that made it even more amusing.
