The meal is going to be served. It may seem absurd: Salisbury steak, corn & mashed potatoes. A banquet for five; one of mini corn dogs, a brownie and fries for the littlest one.
Papa’s passed out, Mamma’s still at work, but the children need fed before they go off to bed and so the oldest takes up the responsibility. It’s not silly in practical terms, just necessary and pertinent as the hands turn on the clock in the kitchen.
So she walks to the store – scoops up the dinners and cooks them in the oven. She’s no beginner. She feels it’s the least she can do, and the least the other children deserve. So she finishes up and yells, "Dinner is served," on another dark, cold, lonely night.
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