Nothing ever goes right when I am in my chair.
While there is nothing interesting going on, I’ll tell you a bit about myself. My name is… well I actually have quite a few, so here goes; I am called Billy Timothy Young. Timothy after my dad, Young after everyone and Billy after myself, though my family don’t call me by any of these names. Stephanie, the teenage sister calls me, “The little Brat.” This is very, very rude but mum always makes me feel better by saying, “ She doesn’t mean it, she loves you really.” My dad calls me “Boppa,” I really have no idea why, and my mum calls me, “Darling.”
My real, real age is; two years, five months and three weeks, though dad did tell me this some time ago, so I may be older and wiser. I am currently learning how to count, I got some good counting tips from a “1, 2, 3, A, B, C” book, great books they are too, all you need to know about counting… great, really great.
Aha, did I just hear the door slam… yes I did.
“Stephanie, can you get that dear!” shouted mum with her head in the oven (cooking, not killing herself thank God, what would I do without mum).
“Shut up, I’m on the phone!” she replied, though her voice was hardly audible though the racket her music machine made.
“Fine” said mum running to the door, “but you are grounded for disobedience young lady.”
“Whatever” said Stephanie lazily.
Dad walked into the kitchen and gave me the usual greeting; ruffles my hair, and turns my spoon into a pretend airplane, and tries to feed me, but oh no mister, that’s not going to fool Billy… but that plane is so tempting… but I mustn’t, it was a dirty plot to try and make me fat, so I turned my head away at the last second and knocked the spoon straight out of dad’s hand and it landed, SPLAT, on the kitchen floor.
Here we go again, the parents arguing about the mess,
“I slave away all day cleaning, ironing, washing and you come home and make a bloody mess out of it!” shouted mum hoarsely.
“You wouldn’t even have a bloody kitchen” (doesn’t look bloody to me, but adults know best…) “if it weren’t for the money I earn.” replied dad. That was a bad move dad.
“How can you say that?” said mum quietly turning her head away.
“Fine, I’d better go,” said dad putting his coat back on. Mum said nothing; she just stared at the sink tears rolling down her flushed face. The door slammed, dad had left. I think that mum was having a crisis, maybe a mid-life crisis dad told me about, I do not know.
Stephanie entered the kitchen and said, “What was all that noise?” (She probably couldn’t hear properly through her loud music) “Did you two have an argument? Has dad left? ‘Bout time, ‘ don’t know how you can stand each other, you’re both such losers.” She then turned away and left for her bedroom, and mum gave a small sob and left too, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Little did I know that this one argument over a square centimeter of carrots on the kitchen floor would change the family’s life forever. This is my story about seeing dad on the weekends and mum on the weekdays; my parents divorce.
By Teddy Johnson 4D.