Better Off Dead

Our middle girl screamed a great many nasty things at us this morning. She claimed she was sick, and couldn’t possibly go to school. We countered that if she was not well enough to go to school, she wouldn’t be well enough to play football with her team on Saturday, or go to country rugby trials on Sunday.

That’s when the screaming started.

Apparently we are nasty parents, mean parents, she hates us, and and she wishes we were dead. She really wishes we were dead. She repeated these proclamations several times, loud enough that several houses each side of ours probably heard. After half an hour she appeared at the foot of the stairs with her school clothes on, unwashed, with hair looking like she had just survived a car accident. I heard the crash of the front door as she slammed it behind her violently enough to damage the door frame.

My other half wandered into the kitchen looking somewhat weary, and I pointed to a cup of tea and a croissant filled with chocolate spread on the kitchen counter, grinning as I did so.

“Good morning.”

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