Mother shoved me out of her way and stomped across the kitchen to the fridge, which she flung open, rattling the condiments stored on the shelves inside the fridge door. She pulled the jug of milk out of the fridge; the crack more obvious than I realized.
“You little thief,” mother squealed. “No wonder you are still waking up with a wet diaper every morning. You’re sneaking out to get a drink every night.”
I remained silent. Any protest that this was in fact only the second night that I had pulled this stunt wasn’t going to be believed and wasn’t going to make her less angry at me.
“And this milk is ruined now,” she muttered, almost as an afterthought.