But all she could manage was a timid explanation.
"Connor, I saw your post online last time, the one where you said you loved farm-fresh eggs. That's why I brought them."
Connor James squeezed a massive glob of hand soap into his palm and scrubbed his hands, not even bothering to look at her.
"That's completely different. Those eggs were a gift from my boss."
A week earlier, Connor's boss had casually given him a basket of farm-fresh eggs. They were small, some still flecked with dirt from the coop. But Connor had treated them like treasure. He'd brought them home, cradled them for a photo, and posted it online:
"First time trying farm-fresh eggs this good. So grateful for the gift!"
My mother saw that post and assumed Connor loved farm-fresh eggs. So she'd handpicked the biggest, finest ones from back home and brought every last one.
She'd carried them the entire way on a thirty-seven-hour train ride, holding them in her lap the whole time to keep them from cracking.
Less than two minutes after she walked through the door, Connor threw them all in the trash.
When she heard what he said, my mother froze. Something shifted behind her eyes, as though she suddenly understood.