"Young man! I said do your chore!"
A portcullis creaks in the background when you raise your head to look at me. The glint of sword-steel flashes back at me from green eyes, or maybe that's a drift of magical dust caught in your lashes, a thin waft of cannon-smoke rises from your hair.
"Mom! I'm right in the middle of ..."
The plaintive complaint trails off. A fatal hand pointing to the kitchen is the only response.
The controller thuds on the coffee table with the dull ring of shod hooves on stone. You let out a classically eloquent teenage sigh as you lever yourself off the couch cushions and stump into the kitchen with the awkward gait of someone shrugging their ill-seated armor back into place.
I am honestly sorry. I wish you wouldn't look at me like that. I'd much rather be there, too. I know that it's all part of the Mom job description, but I hate being the one who has to interrupt the adventure.