The house is a mess. Chili is cooking on the stovetop. I’m wearing a holey t-shirt and jogging shorts.
“Alison, go get dressed.”
It was practical advice. Over 30 people were expected to arrive in 30 minutes, but Transformer robots were strewn all over the living room and kitchen.
“Alison, no one cares if there are toys lying around. Go fix yourself up. You’ll feel better.”
I probably looked like a deer in headlights. “But the mess?”
“I promise. People aren’t coming to see a clean house,” my mom said calmly, holding her 2-year-old grandchild on her hip. “No worries.”
I glanced at the simmering mess in the kitchen. Chili bubbled and popped; onion skins still laid on the countertop.