Imagine, if you will, a mother driving her teenage son to school. The mother is wearing Velcro rollers in her hair and has breakfast in her teeth. She’s driving like a 3-year-old playing Mario Kart because the teenager is mad that he is late.

He isn’t late. He will have exactly four-and-a-half minutes to get in the school and to his class, if he is quick. This is what the mother calls “on time.”

But the son likes to socialize, which you’d never guess by looking at the text messages with his mother. If he’s not at least 10 minutes early, he considers himself late.

“Oh my gosh, you’re always late,” the son mutters. “And do you have to wear those?” He points at the rollers.

The mother drives faster, but not over the speed limit, because just between us, she is wearing socks with flip flops. And if she got pulled over for speeding, the socks would embarrass her more than the rollers in her hair.

The mother turns down her Motown music, as she always does, when they pull into the Drop-Off Zone of the school parking lot and before her son opens the door. As soon as the car stops, he slides out of the passenger seat, one hand in his pocket, the other hand holding the strap of his backpack. He causally joins a moving pack of his peers.

He might have said, “bye,” under his breath.

Or did he?

Just before driving off, the mother realizes the son has forgotten his lunch. He is already on the sidewalk but still within range to hear.

Or was he?

If you’ve ever been a teenager and had a mother, you are shaking your head now, because you know. You just know.

The mother rolls down the passenger window and with a head full of undone hair yells, “[Son’s name]! [Son’s name]! [Son’s name]!”

He doesn’t look back.

“[Son’s name]! [Son’s name]! [Son’s name]!”

He keeps walking.

At first, the mother is stunned. Then she is angry. This is a child she’s bathed, fed, nurtured, carried in her womb. She’s saved money for his college, taught him how to read, given him a dog. She cut his hair when he didn’t like the barber. She suctioned his teeny nose when he couldn’t breathe. She’s cleaned up his sickness, unfolded his dirty socks, held his sticky hand to cross the street.

She has removed his sweaty baseball pants from the depths of his gym bag.

Can the son really just pretend not to hear the mother after all of that?

“[Son’s name]! [Son’s name]! [Son’s name]!”

Other children are turning to look. And there she is, old, frumpy and, okay, maybe wearing her husband’s winter coat over sweatpants with paint on them. Still, she is one more “[Son’s name]” away from throwing the car into park and getting out in her socks-with-flip-flops.

From the backseat, another, younger son, who heretofore sees past the Velcro rollers, says, “Don’t do it, Mom. Just drive.”

Suddenly, the moment echoes of pivotal moments past: when Darth Vader cut off Luke’s hand, when Rhett walked out on Scarlett, when SpongeBob realized he’s not Employee of the Month. The mother’s pride and youth has come to the school parking lot to —

Wait. He is turning around. He is walking to the car! If the mother had a tail, she would wag it. Her face is eager, ready to celebrate the Prodigal Son.

He reaches through the open window, grabs his lunch and walks back into the crowd.

The mother spends the rest of the day reevaluating the choices she’s made in her life. She wonders: is it time for a hair style that doesn’t require rollers? Should she get sweatpants that don’t have paint on them? Should she wake up ten minutes earl — wait, nah.

The mother stews. Her stomach is in knots. She can’t eat. Is she really that embarrassing? When did she get so old? Wasn’t she still cool? How long until the son laughs about this? What would he say when he came home? How would she explain?

Then the son walks in the door. He sets down his backpack in the mudroom, grabs a drink from the fridge as he walks past, and says, “Hey Mom. What’s up?” Like it never even happened.

And did it? Did any of this really happen? How else can she explain these children who share her blood but are sometimes utterly unfamiliar?

Were these teenage years just a bad dream?

The answer can only be found … in the Drop-Off Zone.

Follow columnist Sarah Smiley online at https://www.facebook.com/sarah.is.smiley