“Maybe honor your son’s wife’s grub?”
She rang Stellan, wild. I heard her wail through the line from rooms off. Stellan clicked off and faced me.
“She wants sorry.”
“For what?”
“For shaming her net! For dosing her grub!”
I parked my mug—I’d sipped it full for once. “Didn’t dose.
Mild gut-jolt in MY eats SHE jacked. That’s fallout.”
“You can’t just…”
“Yeah, I can. My roof.
My bites. Tagged mine. What’d you figure, Stellan?
Let her stomp me? Skip meals ’cause you two skip basic respect?”
He gaped, then shut. First quiet in ages.
“Your mom ain’t lifted a finger since baby dropped. Not once. Just shows to chow and bounce.
And you? Backed her every pop. So yeah, lesson dropped.
Maybe now you both pause before grabbing what’s not.”
Stellan hung a beat. Then turned and cleared the kitchen. Two weeks on.
Ophelia ain’t “grabbed” a crumb since the blow. Fact, she’s hit once, and rang first. Packed her own munch and ate in her ride before in.
Stellan? Let’s say he’s cracked pasta boil after years. Even nails cheese toast now.
Wonders happen. Kids eat theirs. I eat mine.
And NO ONE paws what’s off-limits. You know what sank in? Sometimes folks only get lines when fallout bites back.
You can ask nice, spell it, beg. But some learn just when it nips ’em. Or for Ophelia, when it sends her dashing the throne.
Too rough? Maybe. Wrong?
Nah a speck. ‘Cause truth: Can’t keep torching you to warm others. You’ll ash out.
I was sparks already. So if you’re out there with takers who drain while you pour, hold this: You can guard you. You can draw lines.
And you damn well can hold ’em. Even if it means spiking your sandwich light. They say payback’s best chilled.
But my pad? It’s with gut twists and tags screaming: “MINE.”
And real talk? I’d take no other.
