It was Saturday in the late afternoon and I was in the middle of ridding my apartment of dog hair when I heard my cell ringing over the hum of the vacuum. My iPhone screen indicated it was my mom calling. Ever since I successfully taught her how to text message a year and a half ago, the majority of our telecommunication has existed in written form, her messages nearly always signed “Love Mom” as if I wouldn’t be sure. I knew her actually calling me meant something was up.
“Hey, Mom,” I said, bringing the vacuum to a stop.
“Hi, hon,” my mom said. “Listen, I just wanted to let you know not to worry, but it looks like I’m about to be arrested.”
