“Ma, I do NOT want Basya to come. I DON’T let!” I stomp into the kitchen, brushing my hair. Mommy looks up from cream cheese sandwiches.
“Hello, sunshine. Can we start from ‘good morning’?”
I sulk. “Maaa!”
She sighs. “Yes, cutie?”
“I don’t want her to come!” I wail.
“I know, Shan. I know you don’t want her to come.”
“So tell them not to come!” I pour cornflakes into a bowl and start eating grumpily.
