“You ate it!?!”
Feet stomped up the stairs, a door slammed, and muffled cries came from my daughter's bedroom. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, my husband was making dinner and wiping crumbs from his face, cupcake crumbs. Crumbs from the last cupcake that had belonged to my youngest daughter - the one crying upstairs.
Yesterday, he had told her she could have it, then today he ate it.
She didn’t understand.
I knew her pain. I distinctly remember there was a 24-hour rule when I was growing up if we had sweets in the house and it was laying around we had 24 hours to eat it or it was free game and any dibs on it or sharpie written names expired. This rule, however, had not been established in my house.
Tracing her steps I gently knocked on the door, "it’s Mom can I come in". She mumbled something. Her head was buried under the pillow and she peeked out at me. Her tear-streaked face was puffy and her lips were pouty.
“I’m sorry Dad...
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