Why the sarcasm? Why does each conversation with you have to become a constant challenge to hold on to my patience for a lot longer than what my self-respect would allow?

All I asked was a favor, “Could you go to the store and buy some oranges? Dad needs to eat oranges because he seems to coming down with the flu.”

I was very careful with my tone, lest I sound imposing or dictatorial.

“Yeah,” you seemed uninterested, but okay.

You did not rise or make a move to prepare for the task at hand, quite characteristic of you to procrastinate actually, whether deliberately or not, so I said, “Could you go now?”

“Yes, mother, I will do whatever you want. I will do anything for this family!” That’s where the sarcasm came in. The Tone was undeniable. Mocking. Subtle. Yet, I know if I started to debate that tone with you, you will just be on the defense, and it will be world war 3 all over again.

I know better than to prolong any conversation with you, so I headed back into the house. But deep inside me, I was crumbling. My breathing was turning into tiny gasps of muted sobs. I failed miserably again in having a decent exchange with you.


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