McHappiness, McSaddness

“We’ll get McDonalds,” my mother said after four hours on the road. Trees passed, traffic passed, signs saying state names passed and passed. I knew she was crying even from the backseat. The next morning, still puffy and hoarse-throated, she asked; “Want another Happy Meal, baby?” My answer was always yes. We had it again for dinner — this time in another state where they served spicy chicken burgers, and the drive-thru was slow. On Day 3, my mother’s grip on the steering wheel finally loosened. We pulled into a restaurant’s parking lot. She smiled. “How about we have pizza today?”