"What are you arguing about again? You don't even cook at home, all you do is argue with Dad and stir up trouble between Aunt and Uncle. It's so annoying!" Bryan complained with a frown, while my mother-in-law had a cryptic smile on her face. It seemed like she was behind this again.
My son was eight years old this year and just started third grade. When he criticized me alongside his father, he didn't sound like a third grader at all.
I couldn't remember when the child I had raised started looking at me without a word of gratitude, only complaints.
"When you play at home every day, you're wasting my dad's money."
"My dad works so hard to make money. Can't you make things easier for him?"
"What right do you have to tell me what to do? You're the one in this family who does nothing but play."
When my son spoke to me, I felt dazed for a moment. His expression overlapped with Brandon's in my mind. Perhaps I really didn't know how to raise a child, which was why the child I risked my life to give birth to knew how to hurt me the most.