It’s Memorial Day, a time for reflection, grilled meats, and, apparently, maternal rant served hot and fresh at the dinner table. The coals are still warm when Mom claims her throne at the kitchen table, donning her social mask and demanding everyone participate in her favorite family tradition: emotional whiplash. The opening act? A casual announcement that her child has disliked her since birth—an impressive accomplishment, considering most babies are too busy developing basic human abilities to plot acts of personal vendetta.

The audience—three friends and one shell-shocked host—sits in stunned silence, forkfuls of brisket frozen midair, processing the revelation that not only were infant cries an act of spiritual warfare, but that Mom’s long-standing narrative is now shared aloud with your friends.

One friend, brave enough to break the spell, asks the real question: Does she sound proud? The answer is, of course, pride oozes from every word, as she spins her behavior into an annual campfire ghost story.