Maggie stirred the stew, staring vacantly at it. Daddy would be home soon, would expect dinner to be hot and beer open and on the table. She didn’t want another spanking; her behind still had welts from the last time.
Daddy stomped in through the back door. “Smells just like your momma’s cooking.”
You look like your momma. You taste like your momma.
Maggie had learned a lot from Momma. Cooking. Cleaning. When enough was enough. Where to forage in the woods. What could be eaten or not.
Momma had always said all mushrooms could be eaten. Some only once.
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="The Mannequin People by Michael J. Stiehl"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Gator by Randall Andrews"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Rude Awakening by Richard Lau"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="136694 by S.F.J. Painter"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>