The Glare

Tonight, my son and I weren’t having a great night together. Possibly a combination of both of us being tired from the day, but he was whining and complaining more than normal, and I had zero tolerance to shift it to something more positive. The final straw came when he was glued to the TV and wouldn’t touch his dinner. So, I turned off the TV, which was not received with warm affection. He then reached out for my hand, which I thought was a gesture of reconciliation, but instead he held it up to his mouth and spit in it. Which, as you can imagine, wasn’t received with warm affection by me. A few words were exchanged, and then we dissolved into silence, as I ate my food, and he sat staring at me. 

Whenever I would make eye contact with him, he’d narrow his eyes and glare at me. It was funny to see his bottom eyelid crinkle as he raised it up, staring daggers of hatred at me. I didn’t even know my son knew how to glare or to convey such feelings of deep animosity with just a look. But it was perfectly clear what he was saying tonight. He was watching me die a thousand deaths, each one more painful and horrible than the last. And he went to bed hungry.