I was always a nuggets girl, myself

I am walking home from work, head a whirligig of pigdogs and ponycorns, when my frantic tearing mind comes to rest on a mother and son in front of me. She is faded cheerleader pretty; he is fractious, maybe three years old, grizzly heel-dragging that he wants a Happy Meal. 

She stops and towers over him.

'You can't go to McDonalds, Kelsey. Do you know why not?'

Snot agape, he shakes his head no.

'Because you were so naughty that I HAD THEM ALL SHUT DOWN.'

She strides off, straightbacked, and he scurries after her, downcast, with not a whimper of doubt that his Mum could do that. 

Could lie to him.