The dinner began so innocently and quietly. We were eating tacos. Very good.
Brianne reached across the table to get some more lettuce to add to the already mountainous pile on her plate. Doing so caused her sleeve to pull a few inches, exposing a scratch on her arm. Calling it even a scratch is overly dramatic, honestly. Maybe a quarter inch long, hardly any pinker than her natural skin tone.
“Oh, honey, what’d you do to your arm?” Marie asks.
Why. Why do you do this.
Brianne looks questioningly at her own arm where Marie is now pointing. It takes a few seconds for her to even see it, but when she does, her world crumbles. Her shoulders slump and she drops the handful of lettuce she had been holding. Her face darkens, her brow furrowing and her lips quaking. The tears come as she lets out a wail.
“OOOooooooAAAAAAAAa MY ARRRRRM!!!!!!” she screams while slumping sideways out her chair and onto the floor.
Marie, Anthony, and I look at each other while the sobs and whimpers float up from under the table.
“I need to lay on the couch until I’m better” She says as she crawls across the floor. She gets halfway and calls for help. “Daddy, can you carry me to the couch, I can’t walk, my arm hurts.”
“Your legs don’t work?” I say.
“NOOOOOooooooo” She replies.
“Your legs don’t work, because your arm hurts?” I question.
“I KNOW, it’s so confusing!” She answers.
It has been two days now and she is still milking this for sympathy.