Every time, I ended up begging her to eat, feeding her myself.
But today, I felt like, if she wanted to skip dinner, so be it.
I was starting to feel increasingly unwell, shivering as a chill set in.
I quickly took a couple of cold medicine tablets and wrapped myself in a blanket, collapsing onto the sofa.
Her words kept echoing in my mind, "He's just a rough laborer."
I was fuming!
Who was born to do rough work?
Who was born knowing how to fix faucets, repair lights, or handle gas stoves?
Weren't we all our parents' precious darlings?
Back in college, my parents worried whether I could manage on my own.
I didn't even know there were different types of light bulbs—incandescent, fluorescent, energy-saving, LED.
I didn't know faucets came in various models or what tools like wrenches, pliers, or screwdrivers were for.
I learned all of this after meeting Scarlett.
As a man, I was expected to hold up a household, and knowing how to do basic repairs was just part of it.
But Scarlett seemed to think I was born to do these things, naturally cut out for rough work.
"Gabriel, wake up, wake up..."
I was jolted awake by a series of shakes, looking outside to see the sky cloaked in darkness.