The Tragic Bottle

The Little Boy was crying tonight. He'd had a snack when mom got home from work, then dinner of barley and fruit. But, he needed more sustenance. He needed . . . Mom's Brand.

For his entire life, he's had only Mom's Brand milk products. They are the only ones he would eat. He was vehement about it. And Mom didn't mind. She was glad that the three weeks she spent in earth-shattering pain and the investment of time in the form of late nights, early mornings, and hours spent at work with The Machine were appreciated. Though she put little stock in brand names, she felt that Mom's Brand did offer quite tangible advantages to the alternative and, though it required some sacrifice, she was happy to be able to provide the best for the Little Boy.

But, alas, tonight she was out. Mom had given all she had to The Machine at work and the supply was depleted. She'd have to try an alternative, though she knew in her heart that it would be spat out as the imposter that it was. Still, she must try. She could hear the hunger gnawing away at his insides. So, with great trepidation, she approached the Little Boy with her offering. Trickery, cajoling - in the past, nothing had worked to persuade him to accept an imposter. This time she gave it to him straight. No funny stuff. And . . . he did not turn away. He did not make a peep. He took it, as a matter of course, that this would do to fill his gaping innards.

And Mom shed a tear for the beginning of the end of Mom's Brand.

And Dad rolled his eyes. Dramatically.