My mom quickly put the coat away in the closet and never wore it again. Last year, when we renovated the house, my parents chose good-quality, affordable local tiles.
When Virginia heard about it, she came over and tapped the floor with her heel. “These tiles crack easily. We use imported ones; one tile from ours could cover several square meters of your house.”
As she turned to leave, her handbag “accidentally” hit a metal bucket in the corner, spilling white paint all over the floor.
She just said, “Why leave things lying around like this? It looks like a dump.” Then she wiped her shoe with a tissue and left.
My father quietly crouched down and slowly cleaned it up with a small shovel. I once confronted them about it.
Why did they say such hurtful things? Why did we always have to endure it? My parents immediately started lecturing me.
“They’re family. We see them all the time.”
“That’s just how they are. Their words are harsh, but they don’t mean any harm.”
“What do you know, kid? Don’t meddle in adults’ business!”
I used to put up with it, too. But today, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The frustration I’d bottled up for years was finally boiling over.