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Overprotected

The snow on the deck had begun to melt and darkness was settling around the house. Inside, the family sat in silence, echoing the chill that was descending outside. The child was seated on the couch, facing the windows. Her parents occupied the two Lazyboy chairs positioned on either side of the couch, but pointed more towards the fireplace. In the corner of the room, a television was humming and some newscaster's voice droned on about war in the background.

"Are you watching this?" asked the child. She reached for the remote, anticipating their answer.

"Yes. Don't you like to know what's going on in the world?" her father asked.

"I guess," she said abandoning the remote.

"She never watches the news, or bothers reading it either," her mother said without looking up from her paper.

"Yes, I do."

The child sighed and rolled her eyes, took off her tennis shoes, and replaced them with the blue, furry, house shoes she had gotten that Christmas. Then, she pulled her feet onto the couch with her. Her mother glanced up from her paper and frowned at the child, but the child paid no attention. She kept her gaze fixed on the television.

"I know those aren't your feet on my couch!" her mother finally said.
Without a word, the child kicked off her house shoes and propped her sock feet back up onto the couch. Her mother put down the paper she had been reading, folded her hands and looked down her nose at her daughter.

"You know it's one sided," she said.

"What is?" asked the child, hoping this sudden statement wasn't going in the direction that it seemed to be going.

"Your relationship," said her mother.

"You mean my friendship?"

"A friendship is a type of relationship," her mother said.

The child looked away from her mother and back at the television. "I'm sick of this stupid war," she said. "But not as much as I'm sick of this conversation," she mumbled to herself.

"What did you say?" her mother asked.

"Nothing." The child shook her head. "Anyway, no it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"No, I mean one-sided. It's not." The child sighed again. Why did her mother always do this? Couldn't she talk about something else, anything else? After all, the child only came home about once a month, and she'd really like for her visits to be stress free.

"It is. And you don't need to get an attitude. I do know what I'm talking about."

Frustrated, the child got up to leave. She wanted to scream, cuss, roll around on the floor, or throw something (a bit dramatic, but it would help to alleviate her irritation).

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