The Spy Who Mothered Me
Author’s Note: Some details have been changed to protect the guilty, the innocent, and the mother's creative craft. It had been eerily quiet for a solid two weeks. After six months of teen antics that had me hopping like a Secret Service agent, the sudden calm made me uneasy. With my teen’s busy schedule of skirting rules, asserting control, and riding hormone fluctuations that rivaled my own pre-HRT era, I knew better than to relax. In fact, it was so quiet it was literally sus. My spy antennae went on full alert, and I caught my teen yet again. The red flags were everywhere, and my husband was none the wiser, so I moved the beer key cache yet again, because motherhood calls for protective measures every time. It started on a Tuesday afternoon, when my teen asked me to transfer $20 from their checking account to their savings account, because, as a minor, they don’t have online access to their savings. Twenty dollars on a Tuesday was clue number one. Clue number two? They claimed ...