[#224] My Teenage Life (Patreon)

"Are you home?"

I sighed and sent a text back. "Yes."

"I'm serious, Angela.  If you are out past curfew you're in huge trouble."

"Mom, I'm nineteen."

"As long as you live under my roof, you follow my rules."

Ugh!  Why was she such a controlling bitch?  I took a quick selfie and sent it to her in a huff.

"See?  Home.  Now leave me alone."

I didn't hear anything else from her for the rest of the night.

~~~

"Angela, there's a package down here for you."

It was the next day, Saturday morning, the kitchen smelled like orange juice and toaster waffles, and I padded down the stairs in response to the announcement. I didn't expect anything in the mail, though, and I crossed my arms. 

"Mom, I don't see anything."

"Sure you do, it's right there."

What? I frowned and looked at her, at the kitchen, at the table, the chairs, the breakfast, the over-sized highchair, the tablecloth, the... what.

"Mom what the hell is that..."

~~~

I looked at the high chair in shock.  It was big.  Bigger than a normal one, that was for sure.  But why was it here?  Who would buy something like that?  I stared confused at the wooden chair, then at my mother.

"That's not mine," I said flatly. "Why would you think that's mine?"

~~~

"Well, it came for you, so it must be yours, dear."

I frowned and crossed my arms firmer, shaking my head.

"Mom, I'm fucking nineteen, this is someone's idea of a joke."

"Is it?"

"It has to be, Mom, I'd never, I'd... you'd..."

I was getting flustered and I puffed out my cheeks. Stupid swirly head!

~~~

"Come on, let's get you some breakfast."

Before I knew what was happening, Mom grabbed my wrist and took me over to the chair.  I tried to pull away, but she was a big woman and a few inches taller.  She pushed me into the chair and locked the tray in place with a little click.

No matter how I fussed or pulled, the tray wouldn't come off.  My feet couldn't touch the ground.  I looked up at my mom with red cheeks and swirling thoughts.  I felt so...

"Open up.  Here comes the airplane." Mom pushed a spoonful of baby food into my mouth and I sunk further into the infantile headspace.  What... what was happening to me...

~~~

"Nineteen months, that's about the right age for a highchair, isn't it? Although you were still in daytime diapers at that age, Angela, so there's no need to worry about daytime accidents."

Diapers?

Diapers...

Diap... oh no. Last night. I... she.... no, and... and I mean... I opened my mouth to complain, to explain, to protest, and foudn more foods shoveled inside. My Mom. She knew. My teenage life was over.