The Onion Incident
(Based on a true story)
It had been one of those days. Mum came through the door with her shoulders hunched and her handbag swinging like a weapon. I knew the signs - the clipped footsteps, the sigh that lingered too long, the way she reached for the sherry before even taking off her coat.
I was already at the kitchen table, peeling potatoes into a chipped enamel bowl. The rhythm was soothing. Peel, flick, drop. Peel, flick, drop. The radio murmured in the background, some late-afternoon jazz that tried its best to be cheerful.
Mum poured herself a generous glass and took a long sip. Then another. And then, as if on cue, she began.
“Honestly, that woman is insufferable,” she said, slamming the bottle down. “Thinks she’s the Queen of bloody Sheba. Can’t even staple a report properly.”
I nodded vaguely, eyes on the potatoes. I’d learned long ago that this was a nightly ritual. The sherry unlocked the floodgates, and out poured the grievances - colleagues, managers, the printer that jammed every Monday. I didn’t mind. It was her way of coping. And mine was tuning it out.
But tonight, something shifted.
“She said I was abrasive! Me! Can you believe it?” Mum’s voice rose, her cheeks flushed. “I’ve worked there twenty-two years. I trained her! And now she’s telling me how to run a meeting?”
I kept peeling. Peel, flick, drop.
“She’s lucky I didn’t throw something at her.”
Peel, flick - a blur.
I ducked instinctively. A thud. A crash. A sharp crack of glass.
I looked up. The kitchen window had a jagged hole in it, and a large onion lay on the grass outside.
Mum stood frozen, hand still outstretched, eyes wide. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to -”
I stared at the onion. Then at her. Then back at the onion.
And I laughed.
It started as a snort, then a giggle, then a full belly laugh that echoed off the cracked pane and the linoleum floor. Mum blinked, then joined in, her laughter shaky at first, then full-throated.
“I missed your head by inches!” she gasped.
“Good thing I’ve got ninja reflexes,” I said, wiping tears from my cheeks.
We sat down together, the potatoes forgotten. Mum poured herself another splash of sherry and one for me too, just a finger’s worth. We toasted the onion, the broken window, and the absurdity of it all.
“I’ll call the glazier tomorrow,” she said.
“Tell him it was a rogue vegetable,” I replied.
And for the first time that week, the kitchen felt warm again - not just from the oven, but from something softer. Something like forgiveness. Or maybe just the shared relief of surviving another day.
(Based on a true story)
It had been one of those days. Mum came through the door with her shoulders hunched and her handbag swinging like a weapon. I knew the signs - the clipped footsteps, the sigh that lingered too long, the way she reached for the sherry before even taking off her coat.
I was already at the kitchen table, peeling potatoes into a chipped enamel bowl. The rhythm was soothing. Peel, flick, drop. Peel, flick, drop. The radio murmured in the background, some late-afternoon jazz that tried its best to be cheerful.
Mum poured herself a generous glass and took a long sip. Then another. And then, as if on cue, she began.
“Honestly, that woman is insufferable,” she said, slamming the bottle down. “Thinks she’s the Queen of bloody Sheba. Can’t even staple a report properly.”
I nodded vaguely, eyes on the potatoes. I’d learned long ago that this was a nightly ritual. The sherry unlocked the floodgates, and out poured the grievances - colleagues, managers, the printer that jammed every Monday. I didn’t mind. It was her way of coping. And mine was tuning it out.
But tonight, something shifted.
“She said I was abrasive! Me! Can you believe it?” Mum’s voice rose, her cheeks flushed. “I’ve worked there twenty-two years. I trained her! And now she’s telling me how to run a meeting?”
I kept peeling. Peel, flick, drop.
“She’s lucky I didn’t throw something at her.”
Peel, flick - a blur.
I ducked instinctively. A thud. A crash. A sharp crack of glass.
I looked up. The kitchen window had a jagged hole in it, and a large onion lay on the grass outside.
Mum stood frozen, hand still outstretched, eyes wide. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to -”
I stared at the onion. Then at her. Then back at the onion.
And I laughed.
It started as a snort, then a giggle, then a full belly laugh that echoed off the cracked pane and the linoleum floor. Mum blinked, then joined in, her laughter shaky at first, then full-throated.
“I missed your head by inches!” she gasped.
“Good thing I’ve got ninja reflexes,” I said, wiping tears from my cheeks.
We sat down together, the potatoes forgotten. Mum poured herself another splash of sherry and one for me too, just a finger’s worth. We toasted the onion, the broken window, and the absurdity of it all.
“I’ll call the glazier tomorrow,” she said.
“Tell him it was a rogue vegetable,” I replied.
And for the first time that week, the kitchen felt warm again - not just from the oven, but from something softer. Something like forgiveness. Or maybe just the shared relief of surviving another day.
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