Not My Lunch

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It took me a little while this morning to gather up Mom’s clothes and put her name in all her shirts, pants, and hamper, plus label all the hangers. I got to the rehab center at lunchtime and found her sitting by the table, her lunch untouched.

“Mom, aren’t you going to eat your lunch?”

“That’s not my lunch. I told them it wasn’t but they left if here anyway.”

“Mom, it is your lunch.”

“No, it’s not. I haven’t ordered my lunch.”

“Mom. You don’t order your lunch here. It’s not a restaurant. They bring everyone the same lunch.”

“Well, I don’t want it. I didn’t order it.”

“Okay, Mom. I ordered it.”

“You ordered it?”

“Yes, I ordered it for you.”

“Well, if you ordered it, you can eat it. Tell them to wrap it up for you.”

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