“Let the plug out, Michael,” mum would say.
My brother would groan. He enjoyed the splashing; drenching mum as she knelt by the side of the tub, flannel in hand and a tired look upon her brow.
“Michael, I won’t ask you again,” she would say next. It would always be me. I was the older of the two so I constantly got the tap end. It wasn’t so bad though – mum couldn’t reach with me with the soap.
The third and final call would be the same every time. “Michael,” she’d snap, “don’t make me call your father.”
This piece was written for Friday Fictioneers. A group of writers aiming to fulfil the promise of writing 100 words against a weekly prompt. You can find the prompt over at Rochelle’s blog. Go on, take a look.