A conversation between me — a single (widowed) mom — and my teenage daughter, at the dining table, on a snowy day.

My teenage daughter was having lunch; she had made herself a kale salad. I had just eaten a lunch-like breakfast of leftover brown rice and vegetable korma, homemade from the day before, with a freshly cooked dosa. I sat with her, drinking my decaf chai. She didn’t want me to sit with her, as I wasn’t eating. But I pointed out at least I wasn’t chewing, which often annoys her. Because I was sitting with her, she had to disconnect from her device while she ate. She ate in silence for a bit, I sipped my tea.

Take 1:
Teenage Daughter (TD): You’re Mean
Me: You have therapy on Wednesday.

Take 2:
TD: You’re mean.
Me: I’m mean? You’re the one who is mean.
TD: Me? I’m an angel!
Me (parroting a 30 Rock meme I saw the other day): Lucifer was an angel.
TD: That’s going on my private account!
Me: You have a private account?
TD: Of course.
Me: This is why all your friends hate me.

Take 3: (After reflecting what a good mother might do/say)
Me: Do you want to talk about why you think I’m mean?
TD: No.

She goes upstairs, typing on her device. End scene.