Great, stuck with the brat again. Every time my ingrate of a daughter went out of town with her scum bag of a husband I got stuck with their snot nosed, troubled making brat.
He always made a mess of things whether it was drawing on MY walls, spilling grape juice on MY carpet, or making ME look bad at the grocery store.
I took care of my daughter all of my life and right when I think I get to relax for the few remaining years of my life, I get stuck with her brat. Angry thoughts tumbled through my mind as I searched for the rowdy toddler.
I was walking through the hall toward the kitchen, expecting to find him chewing on a spoon when I saw it. There was a large bump in my carpet. It had to be him. The brat. He was scuttling under the rug, probably thinking he was oh so sneaky. He came closer and closer to my little table with my favorite lamp that my mother left me after she died. The table slowly began to tilt and I bolted to the small chair that sat steadily beside the sliding lamp. I picked up the chair and lifted it above my head preparing to crush the child.
This ought to teach him.