Wise Kid

“Your father and I still love you,” his mother spoke like a robot. His father looked at him with uncried tears that threatened to come out. “Why, mom,” he asked. She gave some scripted reply about people growing apart with time. But he wasn’t stupid. He was 12 years old. He had seen it all. From the mean words exchanged to the man who kept on coming over and who patted his cheek in that annoying way. He had heard it all too; from the whispered phone conversations to the sound of his parents’ bedroom door locking in haste. He looked at them with dry eyes and asked, “So which one of you gets to keep me?”

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