I tried not to roll my eyes at my mom’s question. She sat across from me at the massive table my parents had reserved for this very occasion, noting that she was buttering her free bread a little too aggressively. “I mean, do they even speak English?” She posed the question with a disgusted look, her nose wrinkling. “Well, I think English is on the curriculum that I’m going to cover,” I informed her, my hand wrapped around my wine glass tightly. “It’s an English-based volunteer program, so I would assume they speak English at a basic level.” “I guess it’ll be charming, in a way,” she mused before stuffing a chunk of buttered bread in her mouth. “Quaint, even.” My dad rolled his eyes at her muffled words, and I tried my best not to stab her with my fork. I couldn’t be too angry with her; she put together this wonderful dinner (well…. she’d called and made reservations) for me, my friends, and a few select members of the family. However, since she’d heard about my volunteer trip abroad, she’d been poking holes in the whole thing.
