Drawn Out of My Sorry Situation

In the cafe, she orders a drink, and I echo her words, “I’ll have an apple cider.”

‘Mum, you don’t like apple cider.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You told me you didn’t like the taste.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Our drinks arrive. I lift the condensation-covered glass to my eager lips and sip the slightly tart cider. “That’s good!”

Later, inconveniently, I remember my daughter was right. Months ago, she’d handed me an apple cider at home, and I’d returned it, the can still half full. “I don’t like the taste. I’d prefer a glass of wine.”

“Gemma-Rose, I owe you an apology. You were right: I did say I don’t like apple cider.”

My daughter casts me a line, strong, thin, barely visible, and draws me out of my sorry situation.

“The apple cider I gave you wasn’t as good as the ones we had in the cafe,” she says, waving my apology away.

All apple ciders aren’t equal. Nor are our post-apology words.

So, I like apple cider. As long as it’s the Apple Thief variety.

Or maybe I enjoy cider only in cafes on birthdays in the company of my youngest daughter.