She sat in IHOP, ignoring the most precious things in her life.
A young mom, she’d brought her two daughters, Sevenish and Threeish, to sit eating all-you-can-eat pancakes, while she hunched over her phone, 13 or so inches in front of her face, with Someone Somewhere else.
The girls knew.
Their occasional tentative “Mommy?”s were rewarded with irritated, preoccupied glares. Sevenish receded into studied quietness. Threeish finally hopped down, walked over to her mother, and, standing on tiptoes, pursed her lips for a kiss.
It was grudgingly given. Obvious, exasperated sigh. Obligation fulfilled. Sorry; I was distracted. What were you saying?
I’m a writer. I could have easily made this up; but I didn’t. This tableau played out over the 30-or-so minutes as I ate breakfast seated in the booth next to them, trying to concentrate on a continuing chapter in the life of one of my characters.
Will Sevenish Pinkpants-Whitetop and Threeish Redpants-Whitetop attain adult years believing, deep within their core, that despite their brilliant and hopeful smiles, everyone else is of greater importance than they?
Will Mommy in later years suddenly come to, sitting in her recliner, wondering why the girls never come by?
Will she like the answer?
© D. Dean Boone, March 2019