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Wrong Family
comedyEveryone5 contributors · 5 paragraphs deep
Sunday came. I stood outside the house holding a box of sweets from the shop, like a man about to take an exam he didn't study for. Through the window: at least 15 people. The smell of biryani reached the street. I rang the bell. Footsteps. A voice yelled, "THE NEW NUMBER IS HERE!"
The door swung open. Grandma looked exactly like her profile picture. She looked at me, then at the sweet box. Grandma: "You brought from the shop." Me: "...Yes." Grandma: "Good. Danish brought fruit again. Come in, you're the normal one." That was two years ago. I have never missed a Sunday since. I still don't know whose number this was supposed to be.
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