“Maa, I’m not eating this cake. It has refined sugar. You should have used brown instead,” said my three-year-old son, and nutritionist. For the third time this week, he had declined food.
“And who gave you this health advice?”
“Granny, of course!”
“Well, she’s wrong.”
My son ‘talks’ to ‘Granny’ over the old broken rotary-dial phone he found in the attic last month. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that such phones need a wire to work. And that dead Grannies can’t take phone calls.
“Maa, I told Granny what you said. She wants to talk to you.” He held out the phone receiver to me for the fifth time in the last 10 minutes. Giving in, I took the receiver, readying myself for the fake conversation.
“Hello! Maa here.”
“Hello Honey! Why did you tell him I was wrong?” Apparently, my dead mother-in-law does take phone calls.
Photo by Wendy Scofield on Unsplash