“Ma, yes, this is Angie, and, babe, this is my mother, Liz Brunnen, and my father, Ed.”
“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Brunnen,” Angie said.
“Oh, Petey, why didn’t you tell us she had such a cute little accent?” Liz Brunnen said, her own West Virginia accent still thick after all these years. “And please call me Mom or Momma or Ma, just not Mrs. Brunnen. You’re family, now, honey. No need for formality.”
“Okay, ma’am… er, Momma.”
“And look at you,” his mother said. “Such a pretty girl! But what happened to your cheek, honey?”
“Oh, umm…” Angie said as she raised her hand to the bandage on her face and glanced at Peter. “I got scratched by the cat.”
Peter shook hands with his father, who was an older version of his son, tall and lanky, with a tangled mop of unruly whitish-blon
