Last weekend my wife and I took our kids and their partners to dinner at an Italian restaurant. Italian restaurants tend to be loud, and we did our part, telling a variety of stories from days gone by. The subject of older siblings torturing younger ones was the topic, and my wife said, “Didn’t your sister make you drink mustard once?”
My daughter said, “What?”
Me: “You know how I’m pretty skeptical about most things?” I said to her.
“Yeah.”
“That’s because I didn’t used to be, and your aunt took advantage of that.” Thus begins our tale.
I was nine. My sister had fish. Fucking goldfish or some shit. I don’t remember. She asked me to feed them, so I did. A couple of hours later she asked if I’d fed them, and I confirmed that I had. “Did you wash your hands afterward?” she asked. “Yes,” I lied.
“You’re lying! I can tell you’re lying.”
“No, I’m not.”
“We don’t have much time!”
“What?”
“The poison! We have to stop the poison!”
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