The small rationally part of Sally’s brain knew she was in trouble when her mother told her it was a bad idea. She was a grown woman now—closer to thirty than twenty. She’d been taking care of herself for years—even occasionally helping to pay for her younger siblings schooling or leaning a few bucks for a treatment for the old family dog. She was responsible. She was hard working. She loved her family but she led her own life.
And she knew that it was a bad idea—in her heart of hearts she really did know that, and probably would have let the idea drift to the back of her consciousness—a silly little what if to consider on the days that she got bored.
But as soon as her mother weighed in—with that same disapproving sniff that Sally had known since she started making her own decisions—and that slight condescension that made Sally want to scream “I’m a mature adult” in her mother’s face—thus negating the adjective—with the comment “Well—that doesn’t seem like a very wise decision, does it Sally Jane?”
Well, she didn’t have a choice. That teenage rebellion instinct was stronger than any instinct she had learned in adult life. And yes—it was a really bad idea, but she was going to find a way to make it work. Just to prove the point.