You Ate My Garlic Bread

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You ate my garlic bread. I was saving it, for me . . . and you ate it. Not cool. I was actually looking forward to that little piece of garlic bread. I placed it in a plastic bag and hid it beneath the zucchini and the mushrooms in the bottom drawer of the fridge.

I know you didn’t just stumble upon it while searching for baby carrots to snack on, you opened the drawer looking for that garlic bread like a sneaky thief in the middle of the night. That’s just rude. It reminds me of the time my slice of pizza disappeared, and the time that corner piece of cornbread I squirreled away mysteriously vanished.

I am fully aware the cornbread incident was two years ago, but it wasn’t the first missing morsel of yumminess you’ve stolen from me and it certainly wasn’t the last, I have a list. A long list.

It’s not like I’ll starve to death because of what you’ve done, but it bothers me, a lot. It hurts my feelings, pisses me off, annoys me, and disappoints me. I wish I knew how to make you stop.

The thing is, when you take something you know is not yours, even something as insignificant as a tiny piece of garlic bread, it’s an awful thing. It’s sneaking, it’s stealing . . . and then when you deny your misdeed it’s lying. Three things I thought I taught you not to do, three things you only seem to do to me.

My sweet boy, you are a man now, and your choices are your own, I need you to understand this is about so much more than stolen garlic bread.

I really did want that garlic bread.

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