My Son Won’t Let Me Eat the Duck Leg

I bought four roasted duck legs, and my son ate two of them.

When he saw me pick one up for myself, his face flushed with anxiety. Why didn't you save any for Dad?

I was confused. There's still one left for him on the plate, isn't there?

He was on the verge of tears, reaching out to snatch the duck leg I had just taken a bite of. "Couldn't you have saved two for Dad?"

I froze.

So in his eyes, I had no right to eat the duck legs I had personally bought and cooked?

For a moment, I couldn't believe the words coming out of the son I had raised with my own two hands.

I thought maybe he just hadn't seen clearly.

I explained to him, "There were four in total. You had two, I'm having one, and we saved one for Dad."

He dodged the point. "Well, why didn't you tell me?"

I was baffled. "Tell you what?"

He raised his voice, shouting, "You were supposed to tell me before you ate it! How else was I supposed to know you took one?"

I was struggling to understand. "I have to ask for your permission to eat a duck leg now?"

His face turned crimson with anger. "Are you crazy? Stop changing the subject and answer my question! Why didn't you save more for Dad?"

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

He looked as if he'd been deeply wronged, wiping away tears as he said resentfully, "Why didn't you save two for him?"

I was dumbstruck.

So he wasn't bad at math.

I suppressed my anger and questioned him, "So, in your opinion, is Mommy not even allowed to eat a single duck leg?"

He didn't answer, just stood there with his chin up and his neck stiff, looking sympathetically toward his father.

"Dad works so hard every day, of course he should get an extra one. You could just eat something else. Why do you have to fight him for it? Can't you stop being so selfish for once?"

At this, my husband, Mark, who had been sitting by silently, grinned and pushed the plate of duck legs closer to our son, Alex.

Alex's eyes immediately welled up again, his lip trembling as if his suffering had just been validated.

It finally clicked.

I looked at the child I had painstakingly raised, my voice filled with disbelief.

"So Mommy doesn't work hard? Mommy goes to work every day, does all the housework, and takes care of you. Isn't Mommy tired? Doesn't she deserve to eat one single duck leg?"

He said nothing, just kept wiping his tears away.

Seeing this, my husband finally decided to speak, playing the peacemaker.

"Alright, alright, why are you arguing with a child? He's so young, what does he know? He's just fooling around with you."

I stared silently at the dishes on the table.

Every day after work, Id rush to the market, always picking the freshest, most expensive ingredients, terrified that anything less would affect my sons health. Then Id race back home to get dinner on the table before he returned from school, just so he wouldn't have to wait hungry.

Every morning, a neatly folded set of clean clothes was waiting for him by his bed.

The house was always spotless, a result of me fighting off sleep every night to clean.

The snacks, the fruit, the household suppliesthey never ran out, and he never once wondered where they came from.

He was used to it, so he never saw it.

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

A knot of pain tightened in my chest. I couldn't help but ask him, "Mommy is very tired and works very hard, too."

He pushed the plate back toward his father, his tone dismissive. "You barely make any money. How hard can your job be?"

"Dad is the pillar of this family. He's the one who works the hardest."

My eyes locked onto my husband, Mark.

He looked away guiltily, forcing a laugh. "Anna, don't take it out on the kid."

His job was a cushy, low-stress position, and his salary was significantly lower than mine.

But hed always said that a father needed to maintain a strong, positive image to encourage his son to become a responsible, upstanding man.

So, he lied to Alex about his income, inflating his own while drastically downplaying mine.

I thought it was for our childs benefit, so I never said anything.

I never imagined that in my son's eyes, his father was the sole provider, and I was just a pathetic freeloader who didn't even deserve a duck leg.

The thought made my anger boil over.

I swept my arm across the table, sending dishes crashing to the floor.

"Then nobody eats!"

Mark gasped. "Anna! Are you insane?"

I laughed coldly. "If I don't go insane, I'll probably end up not being allowed to eat at all in this house."

My son shrieked and hid behind Mark.

"The tigress is on a rampage again!"

Tigress?

Is that what they called me behind my back?

Mark looked uncomfortable and turned away, pretending to scold our son. "How can you talk about your mother like that?"

Alex didn't care. He ran over, shoved me hard, then ducked back behind his father and made a face at me.

A chilling cold spread through my heart.

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

When he was born, he was frail and sickly, constantly in and out of the hospital. Mark always had an excuse, an "urgent meeting," leaving me to take him to the emergency room alone in the middle of the night. My milk supply was low, so I spent hours researching and preparing nutritious baby food to make him strong.

And now, he was indeed strong. Strong enough to push me onto the sofa with one shove.

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

Clutching my chest, I went back to the bedroom.

Lying in bed, I couldn't understand how things had gotten to this point.

Mark had stopped "working late" around the time Alex started recognizing faces. He'd come home early, bringing little toys and playing wildly with Alex until I had dinner ready.

Then, his tone would change. "Okay, okay, time to eat, or Mommy's going to get angry."

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

At the time, I thought it was wonderful. I thought he was a good, family-oriented man who was willing to play with his son.

But thinking back...

Why was I always the villain?

"Hurry up and eat, or Mommy will get mad."

"Stop fooling around, you'll make Mommy upset."

"Still playing? Just wait until your mother comes to deal with you!"

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

"Mommy won't let us go."

"Here comes Mommy to get you..."

...

I had never hit him, never even yelled at him.

Yet "Mommy" was always the consequence, the threat that followed every restriction and every unpleasant moment.

And "Daddy" had neatly extracted himself, comfortably playing the "good guy."

Soon, Mark came in to "talk" to me.

Every time Alex and I had a conflict, he would play the mediator.

To Alex, he'd say, "Your mom's just got a temper. All women are like that. You be the bigger person and let it go."

To me, he'd say, "Kids don't mean what they say. It's our job as parents to teach them. He was so upset he was crying just now, you shouldn't hold it against him."

My heart would ache for my son, and listening to Mark, I'd start to feel like it was my fault he wasn't being raised right. Guilt would wash over me. Id reflect on my actions and then go make up with Alex.

Over time, this became our routine.

Right now, Alex was sitting in the living room like a little prince, waiting for me to come and appease him.

And Mark, as usual, started his tirade of clichs.

Before, I would just stew in my anger and not pay him much attention.

But this time, I watched him quietly.

And I saw it. In his eyes, there was excitement. A strange sense of triumph.

He was happy.

He was proud that his son was so devoted to him, so much so that he would belittle and even attack his own mother. He was enjoying this.

How had I never noticed it before?

He talked until his mouth was dry, but it was all the same: invalidating my feelings and emotionally blackmailing me.

I gradually began to see his true intention. He was showing off.

Showing off how close he was with our son, while I, the actual mother, was treated with contempt.

But hidden within that pride was a sliver of jealousy I couldn't quite place.

I didn't understand. We were a family. My salary paid for them, for this home. What was he jealous of?

He was the one who couldn't handle a demanding job and chose the easier, lower-paying one.

After waiting a long time for me to come and grovel, Alex started throwing a tantrum in the living room, breaking things.

Specifically, my things.

When I walked out, he was using a small knife to slash at my handbag.

Mark glanced at my face and quickly rushed over to play the good guy.

"Quick, apologize to your mother. If you apologize, she won't be mad anymore."

I picked up the ruined bag. I had worked on a project for months, and I'd used my bonus to finally treat myself to this.

Alex huffed. "She makes so little, and she has the nerve to make you buy her such an expensive bag. Dad, you just spoil her too much."

I had to laugh.

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

He avoided the question, pulling Alex behind him.

"Don't drag the child into our problems. He's still young."

Alex was immediately moved, hugging Mark's arm tightly. "Dad, just divorce her. We don't need this tigress."

Mark's expression stiffened.

He cleared his throat and ruffled Alex's hair. "What are you talking about? Mom and Dad would never get a divorce. We'd never separate, especially not for your sake."

Alex snorted in my direction. "You're just lucky you found a husband like my dad, who's willing to support you."

The two of them exchanged a smile. Mark ushered Alex into his room, then turned to face the mess, sighing dramatically.

"Anna, you're a mother now. Can't you be more mature? Look at this place, what a mess."

I pressed him. "You said you bought this bag?"

He looked down. "It's just a bag. Do you really have to be so petty?"

I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound.

"You're right. It's just a bag. So buy me a new one."

He scoffed. "Fine, I'll buy it. It's not like I've never bought you anything before."

True.

He had bought me things.

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

He looked a little embarrassed, pulling out his phone to order one. "Is that what this is about? You just wanted a gift? I'll get it for you, you don't have to be so relentless."

But his face changed when he saw the price. He jumped to his feet.

He pointed a finger at me, yelling, "Anna! How can you be so wasteful!"

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

I glared at him.

He glared back defiantly. "I'm not wrong! You spend Dad's money on bags and makeup for yourself, but you won't even save him a duck leg! You're so selfish! How can you be so shameless? I'm so embarrassed to have a mother like you."

Without a moment's hesitation, I slapped him across the face.

He was too stunned to react, just stared at me blankly.

It was the first time in his life I had ever laid a hand on him.

After a few seconds, his face contorted with rage, and he pointed his finger right at my nose.

"You hit me!"

I slapped his pointing hand down.

Furious, he tried to head-butt me. I sidestepped, and he slammed his head into a cabinet.

He burst into tears. "Dad, Mommy's bullying me! Go hit her!"

Mark rushed to hug him, then roared at me, "What is wrong with you tonight? Do you have to turn this house upside down?"

"Is it all because of a stupid duck leg? Fine! Alex and I won't eat them! You can have them all, is that what you want?"

I walked right up to Mark.

He snorted, lifting his chin, as if waiting for me to back down and apologize.

After all, I was always the one who compromised for the sake of our family, for our son.

I stopped in front of him.

I raised my hand.

And I slapped him, hard, across the face.

"I was so focused on the kid, I forgot about you."

Mark looked up, stunned. "You hit me."

I picked up my ruined handbag.

I had just gotten a promotion. I needed something professional for client meetings, so I had saved for a long time before finally splurging on this bag. I was always so careful with it.

Now, it was covered in scratches.

He felt I didn't deserve it, just like he felt I didn't deserve a single duck leg.

I held up the bag, my eyes filled with disappointment as I looked at Mark. "Let's get a divorce."

Children are incredibly perceptive.

Mark's tacit approval of our son's behavior, coupled with his own teasing put-downs of me, had shown Alex that my position in the family was at the very bottom. That I could be treated however they pleased.

That's why he felt I didn't deserve nice things.

He had become this way because of his father's influence.

Mark panicked, forgetting his swollen cheek. "Honey, we were just kidding around, don't take it so seriously. Why are you talking about divorce over something so small? Think about how it will affect Alex's mental health."

In the past, any mention of our son would make me back down.

But now, I glanced at the boy who had absolutely no room for me in his heart and let out a cold laugh.

"Isn't this what our good son suggested? Don't you always say we should respect our child's wishes? Well, I'm just doing what he wants."

He was speechless for a moment, then frowned at Alex.

"That's not what I meant. Look at you, always blowing things out of proportion. Can't you take a joke?"

Alex snuggled into his father's arms, glaring at me. "Dad, don't give her another chance. Divorce her. I'd like to see how she survives without us. She'll regret it then."

I couldn't help but chuckle.

I looked at Mark and nodded. "Yes, I'm sure without a burden like me holding you back, the two of you will live like kings."

Alex pumped his fist in the air. "We will! And when you come crawling back, you tigress, we won't take you back!"

Mark awkwardly tried to quiet him. "That's enough."

Alex didn't know the truth, but Mark certainly did. I bought everything for the house. I paid for all the monthly expenses. His salary was just his own pocket money.

The next morning, the house was clean, and breakfast was on the table.

Mark, wearing an apron, was acting as if nothing had happened. "Honey, breakfast is ready," he said with a cheerful smile.

I was taken aback. The last time he'd been this helpful was when I was pregnant. Back then, I thought I was so lucky to have found such a caring husband. After our son was born, he never set foot in the kitchen or lifted a finger to clean again.

As I ate, Alex glared at me resentfully from across the table.

"You're a woman making a man do housework. Have you no shame?"

"If other people find out, they'll call Dad henpecked."

"Besides, this is all your job. Don't keep bothering Dad. Even if he spoils you, you can't just take it for granted. At least say thank you. You have no manners."

"Can you just stop making trouble? Let Dad have some peace. He works so hard to support us, it's already hard enough for him."

I looked at the son I had raised for ten years, and a deep chill settled in my heart.

Did he have no empathy for the mother who gave birth to him and raised him?

Mark cleans the house and makes breakfast one time, and my sons heart breaks for him.

What about me? I had cooked for him for ten yearsthree meals a day, his clothes, his home, everything taken care ofwhy had he never felt sorry for me? Why had he never once said thank you?

The boy I once thought was lively and cute suddenly seemed monstrous.

I looked down at my plate, unable to look at him any longer.

After breakfast, I walked out of the bedroom with a suitcase.

Mark stared at me. "What are you doing?"

I said flatly, "I'm serious about the divorce."

He rushed to grab my suitcase. "No, I don't agree. I'm not divorcing you."

But Alex pulled on his arm, a happy look on his face. "Dad, let her go! You're handsome, gentle, caring, and you make good money. You can find any woman you want without her."

"Let her go. Once she's gone, she'll realize how good she had it here. She can just wait and regret it."

I snorted and looked at Mark. He was decent-looking, I suppose. As for gentle and caring... please.

I walked out the door with my suitcase.

The moment it clicked shut, I could still hear Alex chattering on to his father about all the benefits of divorcing me.

And on Marks face, a look of pure bewilderment.