My mom loves to hurry. Especially on the dad (he has been used to for a quarter of a century of life together, especially does not stress and lovingly calls her "my Pinochetic"). And, I have to say, brushes mom quality, talented and with the soul. But in so many years, all and all kinds of serious reasons have either turned over or gone along and across and bored everyone, including my mother. This is why it is necessary for her, the sick, to constantly invent new and new reasons, so as not to miss their life together.
Today he calls me and gives me another pearl:
This is what I think. Love is confessed five times a day. He prepares lunch every day. Coffee in bed is normal. He stole me on March 8.
And, most importantly, with such an unfaithful insult in the voice, with such anger!