The day mother doesn’t come home from work, father gets worried that he will have to raise both of us all on his own. And I and my sister get worried because the father isn’t a good cook, and all we have had for our dinner, the past three nights, are oats and mashed potatoes.
But two children with neither of their parents alive aren’t looked up in the society. So we have decided against killing our father. He also earns, for us, of course.
My sister would be a fine writer one day, I’m sure. And on days when we won’t have a story to tell, we will tell the tale of our dead mother and a father who cooked terribly.
Our friends in the neighborhood are stupid and cannot fend for themselves if their mothers die. Just like little Tim, who fell down on the playground while playing with us the other day, and we tried to bury him, but the sand fell short.
Their parents complain that we make too much noise, but silencers are costly, and real kids don’t use them. Father is annoyed, but he still doesn’t cook very well, and I hope that mother is seeing this.
Father has booked our tickets to our grandparent’s house, and I remember very vividly, that the last time I visited grandmother, we were served apple pies and delicious banana cakes. Funny how they’ll live longer than the father. Or maybe not.