The Drumstick Dilemma

I bought four fried chicken drumsticks. My son ate two.

Seeing me reach for one, his face turned red with anxiety. Why didn't you save any for Dad?

I was confused. Isn't there one left for him on the plate?

He looked like he was about to cry, reaching out to snatch the drumstick I had already taken a bite of. "Can't you just save two for Dad?!"

I froze.

In his eyes, the chicken I bought with my own money, the chicken I cooked with my own hands... I wasn't even qualified to eat it?

1.

I couldn't believe my ears. This was the son I raised with my own hands.

Maybe he didn't count correctly.

I explained gently, "There were four in total. You ate two, I'm eating one, and there's one left for Dad."

But he dodged the logic completely. "Then why didn't you tell me?"

I was bewildered. "Tell you what?"

He raised his voice, shouting, "You should have told me before you ate it! Otherwise, how would I know you were going to eat one!"

I still didn't quite get it. "I'm just eating a drumstick. Do I need to file an application with you first?"

His face flushed with anger. "What is wrong with you? Don't change the subject! Answer my question! Why didn't you save it for Dad?"

I pointed to the plate. "I did. See? There's one right there."

He acted as if he had suffered a great injustice, wiping away tears aggressively. "Why didn't you save two for him?!"

I was stunned.

It wasn't that he couldn't count.

Suppressing my anger, I asked him, "So you think Mom doesn't deserve even a single drumstick?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he stiffened his neck, face red, and looked at his father with heartache.

"Dad works so hard every day. Of course he should eat more chicken! You can just eat whatever else is there. Why do you have to fight him for it? Can't you stop being so selfish..."

Hearing this, my husband, Mark, grinned and pushed the plate with the remaining drumstick toward our son.

My son immediately pouted, eyes redder than ever, looking even more aggrieved.

I finally realized what was happening.

Looking at the child I had nurtured bit by bit, I said in disbelief:

"So Mom isn't working hard? Mom has a job too. Mom does all the housework. Mom takes care of you. Does Mom not work hard? Does Mom not deserve a drumstick?"

He said nothing, just kept wiping his tears.

Seeing the situation escalate, Mark finally decided to open his mouth and play the peacemaker.

"Alright, alright, Maya. Why are you bickering with a child? He's just a kid, he doesn't know anything. He's just joking with you."

2.

I stared silently at the dishes on the table.

Every day after work, I rushed to the grocery store like I was on fire, picking the freshest, most expensive ingredients, terrified that anything less would affect my son's health.

Then Id rush home to cook, ensuring dinner was on the table before he got back from soccer practice, afraid hed go hungry.

Every morning, his clean clothes were folded neatly by his bedside.

The house was always spotlessthe result of me fighting off sleep every night to clean.

The pantry was never empty of snacks, fruits, and essentials. He never once had to think about where these things came from.

He was used to it, so he didn't see it.

He only saw his father leaving early and coming home late for work.

I felt a lump in my throat and couldn't help but ask him, "Mom works very hard too. Mom gets tired too."

He pushed the plate back toward his father again, sneering, "You only make that little bit of money every month. What's so hard about that?"

"Dad is the pillar of this family. He works the hardest."

I stared unblinkingly at Mark.

He looked guilty under my gaze and laughed it off. "Maya, don't lower yourself to a child's level."

His job was leisurely, and truthfully, his salary was far lower than mine.

But he insisted that as a father, his image should be tall and mighty. He needed to set a positive example to encourage our son to become a man who could hold up the sky.

So, in front of the kid, he lied about his income and drastically understated mine.

I thought it was for the boy's good, so I never said anything.

I never imagined that in my son's eyes, Mark was the provider, and I was just a useless moocher who didn't even deserve a chicken leg.

Thinking of this, I couldn't suppress the fire anymore.

I flipped the dining table.

Crash.

"Then nobody eats!"

Mark screamed, "Maya! Are you crazy?!"

I sneered, "If I don't go crazy now, I'm afraid I won't even deserve a mouthful of rice in this house later."

My son screamed and hid behind Mark.

"The Tiger Mom is going crazy again!"

Tiger Mom?

Is that what they call me in private?

Mark turned his face away uncomfortably, pretending to be angry as he patted our son. "How can you say that about Mom?"

My son didn't care. He ran out, shoved me hard, then hid behind Mark again, making a face at me.

My heart went cold.

This was the child I carried for nine months and raised with my own hands?

When he was born, he was weak and sickly. We were at the hospital every other day.

Mark always used "overtime" as an excuse. It was usually me, alone in the middle of the night, holding him while he got an IV drip.

I didn't have enough breast milk, so I researched every formula and supplement to make him strong.

Now he is indeed strong. Strong enough to push me onto the sofa.

It didn't hurt physically, but my heart felt like it had been stabbed.

Clutching my chest, I went back to the bedroom.

3.

Lying in bed, I couldn't understand why it turned out like this.

Mark stopped working "overtime" so often once our son started recognizing people.

Hed come home early, playing with the boy with all sorts of toys until I finished cooking.

Then hed put on a stern face: "Alright, alright, go eat. Or Mom will get angry and blow up."

Then the two of them would go wash their hands, giggling.

At the time, I felt happy. I thought he was a good family man willing to play with his kid.

But thinking back carefully...

Why was I always the villain when discipline was needed?

"Eat fast, or Mom will be mad."

"Stop playing, Mom's going to be unhappy in a minute."

"Still playing! Wait till your Mom sorts you out!"

"No, Mom won't let you eat that."

"Mom won't let you go."

"Mom's going to spank you."

...

I never hit him. I never yelled at him.

But all the negativity, all the unhappiness, was always followed by "Mom."

While Dad kept his hands clean, comfortably playing the "Good Guy."

Soon, Mark would come to "persuade" me.

Every time there was friction between me and the kid, he played both sides.

To the son: "Your Mom just has that temper. Women are like that. Be the bigger man, let it go."

To me: "Kids don't mean what they say. We parents need to educate them properly. Look, he's crying, he feels bad. Don't hold a grudge."

I loved my son. Hearing Mark, I always felt it was my fault for not teaching him well, so I felt even more guilty.

Then I would reflect on myself and actively seek reconciliation with my son.

Over time, they seemed to accept this dynamic as the default.

Right now, my son was sitting arrogantly in the living room, waiting for me to go apologize.

And Mark, just like before, started chattering with those clichs.

In the past, I was too busy sulking to pay attention to him.

But this time, I stared at him quietly.

I actually saw excitement in his eyes. And an inexplicable pleasure.

He was happy.

His son sided with him unconditionally, even belittling and shoving me for him. He felt proud. He felt joy.

How did I not see this before?

He talked until foam formed at the corners of his mouth.

All of it was disapproval of me and various forms of moral kidnapping.

I gradually realized his true intention. He seemed to be showing off.

Showing off that his son was close to him and dismissive of me, his own mother.

But hidden within this boasting was a trace of indescribable jealousy.

I didn't understand. We are a family. My salary is spent on him and the boy and this house. What is he jealous of?

Besides, he was the one who couldn't handle the stress and chose the easy, low-paying job.

4.

My son waited a long time for me to come and coax him. When I didn't, he started throwing a tantrum in the living room.

He specifically targeted my things to smash.

When I came out, he was taking a small knife and slashing at my handbag.

Mark glanced at my face and quickly jumped in front of our son to be the hero.

"Quick, apologize to Mom. If you apologize, Mom won't blame you."

I picked up the slashed bag. I had pulled all-nighters for months on a project to get the bonus to reward myself with this bag.

My son huffed angrily, "She makes so little money, yet she has the nerve to make you buy her such an expensive bag. Dad, you spoil her too much."

I laughed in anger.

I threw the bag at Mark's feet. "You bought this?"

He avoided the question, pulling our son behind him.

"Let's not drag the child into our issues. He's still small."

My son was instantly moved, hugging Mark's arm tightly. "Dad, divorce her. We don't want this Tiger Mom anymore."

Mark's expression stiffened instantly.

He coughed dryly, rubbing the boy's head. "What nonsense. How could Mom and Dad divorce? Even just for you, we couldn't possibly separate."

My son snorted at me. "You're just lucky you found my Dad as a husband who's willing to support you."

The father and son smiled at each other. Mark pushed the boy into his bedroom, then turned to look at the mess in the living room, sighing deeply at me.

"Maya, you're a mother now. Why are you still so immature? Look at this house. It's a disaster."

I kept asking him, "Did you tell him you bought this bag?"

He lowered his eyes. "It's just a bag. Do you have to be so petty?"

I laughed out of pure rage.

"Well said. It's just a bag. Then buy me a new one."

He scoffed. "Fine. It's not like I haven't bought you things before."

Right.

He certainly had.

An apron for International Women's Day. Laundry detergent for Mother's Day. A rice cooker for my birthday.

He felt a bit embarrassed and opened his phone to place an order. "You just want a gift, right? Fine, I'll buy it. Do you have to be so relentless?"

But when he saw the price tag, he jumped.

He pointed at me and cursed, "Maya! How can you be so wasteful?!"

Hearing the commotion, my son ran out, crossing his arms and sneering, "See? I told you. She's a lazy, gluttonous, wasteful woman."

I glared at him.

He glared back fiercely. "I'm not wrong! You spend Dad's money on bags and makeup for yourself, but you can't even bear to save a drumstick for Dad! Selfish ghost! How do you have the shame? It's embarrassing to have a mom like you."

5.

Without hesitation, I slapped him across the face.

My son didn't react immediately. He stared at me blankly.

This was the first time I had ever hit him in his life.

A few seconds later, his face turned red, and he pointed his finger at my nose in rage.

"You dare hit me!"

I slapped the hand pointing at me.

He was furious. He tried to headbutt me. I dodged, and he slammed his head into the cabinet.

He cried out in pain. "Dad! Mom is bullying me! Beat her up!"

Mark hugged his son in distress, roaring at me, "What the hell is wrong with you today? Do you have to turn this house upside down?"

"Is it just because of a chicken leg? My son and I won't eat anymore! We'll give it all to you! Happy now?!"

I walked up to Mark.

He grunted lightly, lifting his chin, seemingly waiting for me to soften and apologize.

After all, in the past, I always compromised for the sake of this family and the child.

I stopped in front of him.

Reached out.

Raised my hand.

And slapped him hard across the face.

"I was so busy hitting the kid, I forgot to hit you."

6.

Mark looked up in shock. "You actually hit me."

I picked up the slashed bag.

I got promoted. I needed something presentable for client meetings, so I saved and scrimped for a long time before finally buying this bag.

I used it so carefully.

Now it was slashed to shreds by my son.

He thought I didn't deserve to use it, just like he thought I didn't deserve a drumstick.

Holding the bag, I looked into Mark's eyes with disappointment. "Let's get a divorce."

Kids are actually very good at reading people.

Mark's tacit approval of our son's behavior, his "joking" ridicule and suppression of me... all of it signaled to our son that my status in the family was the lowest. That I could be treated however they wanted.

So he felt I didn't deserve anything.

That my son became like this is directly linked to his father's guidance.

Mark panicked. Ignoring his swollen face, he stammered,

"Honey, we were just joking with you. Don't take it seriously. Why bring up divorce so easily? It's bad for the child's mental health."

In the past, as soon as the child was mentioned, I would compromise.

But now, I looked at this son whose heart and eyes had no room for me, and sneered.

"Isn't this what our good son proposed? You always say we should respect the child's ideas. Aren't I just following his wishes now?"

He choked, frowning at our son.

"I didn't mean that. Look at you, making a mountain out of a molehill. Can't take a joke."

My son nuzzled into his chest, glaring at me coldly.

"Dad, stop giving her chances. Divorce her. Let's see what she eats and drinks after leaving this house. She'll regret it when the time comes."

I couldn't help but laugh.

I looked at Mark and nodded. "Yes. Without me dragging you down, you two will surely live the high life. Steak and lobster every night."

My son pumped his fist, shouting, "We definitely will! And when that time comes, even if you, Tiger Mom, kneel and beg us, we won't let you come back!"

Mark tugged at his son awkwardly.

"Stop talking."

The son didn't know, but Mark knew perfectly well. I bought everything in the house. I was responsible for the monthly expenses. His salary was just his pocket money.

7.

The next morning, the house had been cleaned by Mark.

Breakfast was on the table.

He wore an apron, pretending nothing had happened, smiling brightly. "Honey, breakfast is ready."

I paused. The last time he was this diligent was when I was pregnant.

Back then, I thought I was lucky to find a considerate husband.

But after the child was born, he never entered the kitchen or did housework again.

While I ate breakfast, my son stared at me with resentment.

"You're a woman, letting a grown man do housework. Have you no shame?"

"If outsiders knew, they'd call Dad 'whipped'."

"And these are your chores. You can't always trouble Dad to help you. Even if he spoils you, you shouldn't be so comfortable with it. At least say thank you. No manners at all."

"Can you stop causing trouble in the future? Stop arguing. Let Dad worry less. It's hard enough for him to work and support us."

I looked at this son I had raised for ten years, feeling waves of chills in my heart.

Did he have zero empathy for the mother who raised him?

Mark cleaned the house once, made one breakfast, and it pained him this much.

What about me? I cooked for him for ten years. Three meals a day, clothing, shelter, transportation, everything. Why did he never feel pain for me? Why did he never say thank you to me?

The son I once thought was lively and cute suddenly became so hideous.

I lowered my head, not wanting to look at him again.

After eating, I dragged my suitcase out of the room.

Mark looked at me in shock. "What are you doing?"

I said calmly, "I was serious about the divorce."

He rushed over to grab my suitcase. "No! I don't agree! I won't divorce you!"

But my son pulled his arm, beaming.

"Dad, let her go! You're so handsome, gentle, and considerate, and you make money. Without her, you can find any woman you want."

"Let her go. Once she leaves, she'll know how good she had it here. Let her wait to regret it."

I scoffed and looked at Mark.

Well, the face is passable. As for gentle and considerate... heh.

I grabbed my suitcase and walked out decisively.

The moment the door closed, my son was still chattering to his dad about the benefits of divorcing me.

Mark's face was full of blank panic.