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My dad.
He hardly ever hugs me.
And he’s never taken me for burgers.
く
One time, I tripped on the sidewalk and
couldn’t help it, I started crying.
I looked up at Dad, reaching for him, asking
quietly, “Hug?”
He frowned, saying to Mom, “How are you
raising this kid? Crying over nothing. She
can’t be so spoiled.”
I didn’t understand everything Dad said.
But I knew he was mad at Mom.
Because I fell?
Or because I cried?
I quickly wiped my tears, trying to ignore the
<
pain, and stood up myself.
I walked to Mom, holding my arms out in front of her, like a shield.
“I’m okay, I’m not hurt at all. Dad, please don’t yell at Mom anymore, please.”
Dad glanced at me, didn’t say anything, and just walked away.
I looked up at Mom, hoping she’d praise me.
Her eyes were watery, and she pinched my
cheek, saying, “I’m sorry, honey. Mom is so
sorry.”
The teacher told us.
Only people who do something wrong need to
Г
I shook my head, saying seriously, “Mom, you don’t need to be sorry.”
Because the one who did something wrong.
It’s never my mom.
