He then looked at his fork and knife.
On the fork was cake.
Turkey? Cake?
Mickey's gaze shifted back and forth between the dining table and his utensils, his mind a chaotic mess.
"Go on and eat, Mickey."
His mother's voice rang out, a hint of a smile in her tone.
"Doesn't it taste good?"
Mickey raised his head and looked at his mother.
His mother was still sitting across from him, her face wearing that same loving smile.
Her eyes, the corners of her mouth, every one of her expressions, were exactly the same as in his memory.
But Mickey suddenly felt that something wasn't right.
He couldn't say what it was.
But it just wasn't right.
"Mom," he began hesitantly, "this is… turkey, right?"
"Of course it's turkey," his mother replied as if it were obvious. "I roasted it myself, how could it be anything else?"
"Then…" Mickey glanced at the cake on his fork again, "it's not cake?"
