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“I wish I was a better mother!”
For some reason, you two were transported to the kitchen.
“Huh?” She says.
“Beats me,” you say.
You were about to ask her to rub the lamp again when you saw that she was changing, her clothes were slowly morphing into an apron and her hair was being fixed up. Her expression went dull as her mind was being rewritten to (presumably) be the perfect housewife. After a few moments, she cracks a smile.
“Oh silly me, I didn’t offer you any food,” she remarks. “What can I fix up for you?”
“Uh...I’m good,” you say.