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So, Ryan and I pull up to the house, and I'm already riddled with anxiety because I know I'll eat shit inside. But, wait, what's that in the distance as we drive down the hill? That's right: My mother is standing outside, in the light of the streetlamp, waiting for our arrival.
We park outside the house. My mom, in Greek, hisses at me "don't say a word and go inside right now" and I go in. I immediately run upstairs, out of my mind, and go into a closet where I call a friend and repeatedly say "my life is over" and literally go into the fetal position.
My mom, meanwhile, is absolutely reaming Ryan, with "what are you thinking taking a sophomore girl to the golf course at night?", "you know I know your parents, do they know where you are?" which, according to her, he painfully mumbled through until she allowed him to crawl away.
I can't remember what happened when she came in, but I'm almost certain I wasn't formally punished beyond just getting my phone taken away for that one night. The real punishment would take place on Monday, when it felt like the entirety of my school mocked me for what happened.
And that was it. I was literally never punished again because I was scared shitless of the creative humiliation that might come with it (also, I was mostly a good kid anyways). My mom is incredibly proud of her streetlamp move and still brags about it to this day.
Oh yeah: Ryan and I never spoke again.
It's also worth noting that my mom is an outstanding mom who mostly was not stood under streetlamps. I even have a story coming out tomorrow about our relationship and her parenting so stay tuned folks
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