I’d wait for my mother to fall asleep. A bit past midnight and in between the silence, I would sneak my way out of the room, shot glass in hand.
We lived behind a bakery — my mother’s third attempt at a business — and in that small shop we sold various breads and pastries.
Among which had a special ingredient, at least special enough for me: Rum. I’d sit at the bottom of the shelf where we’d keep stocks of bottled inventories and pour myself an almost full shot.Read more on themighty.com