Spoilsport

You. Did. Not.

Deceiver.

Traitorous child of my blood.

Betrayer.

My ears are ringing, hands frozen with cold. I sit frozen, shell-shocked at how anyone could be spoilsport enough to perform such a cruel action.

My stomach is revolting already, protesting at the lack of consideration you have just shown.

You. Ate. My. Ice. Cream.

Not just any ice cream. The creamiest, most delicious ice cream in the world.

I had eagerly opened the tub that had tempted and seduced me from the darkest depths of the fridge for weeks.

Bribe me with anything you want, and I will hold steadfast. The only thing I will leave you for is a tub of strawberry cheesecake ice cream. Just kidding.

I suppose you knew that though.

And you had just leaned over and swallowed the last mouthful of it.

The feeling of absolute satisfaction and bliss that had previously pervaded each of my senses turns sour as you grin.

You. Ate. My. Ice. Cream.

What sort of family are we? I snap into action, revenge filling my thoughts, pummeling you with whatever raggedy cushions on the old sofa I can get my hands on.

You protest, crying, laughing and apologizing, arm raised in a mock admittance of surrender.

But you ate MY ice cream!.

The TV is till blaring, some K-Drama you have stubbornly chosen to watch with fifty thousand perspectives.

We settle back, the warmth of the couch enveloping us in a warm embrace.

Your mouth is open, over-seasoned popcorn falling into your lap as you watch the serial with focus that I wish you would put towards studying. There's a deep crease between your eyebrows as you abuse the remote which is not cooperating with you. Spoilsport.

I still haven't forgiven you for eating the ice cream.

You're smart, intelligent and gorgeous (of course, when you have my genes!), but you're also a procrastinator. You get that from your father. But, like me, you love ice cream. So I can't really blame you for eating mine. And, you love Korean dramas. The best moments are when we hug on the floor, sobbing and cackling over the antics of the actors.

Do you want more popcorn? You ask, smiling gently, the blue glow of the TV reflecting on your tired face. You have bags under your eyes that look like bruises.

I shake my head and grab your bowl. I'll make it, I say.

I head to the kitchen, switching on the light, glancing at the clock. It's almost midnight. Four hours have dwindled away into practically nothing.

I take the lid off the pan, heavily buttering the inside and adding corn. I close the lid and lean on the counter, waiting for the tell-tale pops that will tell me your popcorn is ready.

You have a difficult exam tomorrow, yet I still don't know how you persuaded me to let you stay up. Honestly, it doesn't even matter at this point. Because I can never say no to you.

I can never refuse you, especially when you look at me with that humorous sparkle in your eyes that begs me to follow you.

Time is intrinsic, with a natural flow that calls me along. Most parents try to force their children upriver. I could never bring myself to do that to you. Time is inherent to reality, even if there is no one around to see it.

The popcorn is done, battering the inside of the metal like how an army would bash open city gates. I turn off the stove and empty the snacks into bowls.

You always like your popcorn to be cheesy and spicy. I can never understand why. But I add an extra spoonful of peri-peri sauce to your bowl anyways.

Holding both bowls in my hand, I walk back to the living room.

Here you go madame, I mock curtsy. You giggle and stuff your fist into your mouth, just like a child. But you're halfway to becoming an adult already.

She'll get ditched by her boyfriend in this one, you whisper to me, smugly smirking as if you haven't just ruined the entire episode for me. I don't mind though. Spoilsport.

Ah, I shouldn't be so sentimental. You grow up too fast for me to waste time daydreaming about the past.

We crunch on sour candies, watching the protagonist wail in an utterly unconvincing way after she gets dumped. You were right after all.

This episode ends quickly enough. Too quick. Before you can touch the remote, I snatch it up and turn off the television.

You fold your arms, face in a sulky little pout as the unspoken words swivel in your eyes. Spoilsport.

With a huff and puff, you stand up, folding the blankets with drawn-out, exaggerated movements. I tut silently. Teenagers. But soon enough, the mess is cleaned up.

We go quietly up the stairs, taking care to muffle our footsteps. The house is getting old, with stereotypical aching joints masked as creaking boards.

Your room is cluttered with junk. While you pretend to brush your teeth in your bathroom, I straighten up the picture frames on your desk and re-organize your books.

When did they get so big?

It seems like yesterday when you started reading ‘The Tiger that came to Tea’, and now, I’m staring, befuddled at advanced chemistry and mathematics textbooks.

You close the bathroom door with a click, and slump onto the bed, exhaustion suddenly hitting you like a Japanese bullet train going at fifty miles per hour.

I tuck you in, and turn to leave, resigned to sleeping with your father who will, without a doubt, steal all the blankets from me in the middle of the night.

But you grab my arm, a quiet plea in your face.

We cuddle up together, like a couple of emperor penguins in the arctic wasteland looking not just for warmth, but companionship.

My eyelids grow heavy after a few minutes. I have worked all day and there’s a tiredness that weighs down right to the marrow of my bones. The only thing stopping me from falling off the edge is you.

You're already asleep. Your light snores contrast starkly with your father's. He snores like a grating chainsaw.

The looming prospect of your examination has weighed down on you for months. Within a few hours, you will be awake again, frantically gulping down mugs and mugs of coffee, reading and re-reading your meticulous notes.

I told you to sleep early, but you never listen. And you never will. Spoilsport. Tomorrow, when you wake up, you'll panic. And I'll be there, holding your hand and telling you not to worry.

When you eat my ice cream, I'll hand you another tub. When you stay up all night because of an upset stomach from chugging hot sauce, I'll be right next to you. And when you need me, I'll be there. No matter what.

Even though you're a spoilsport.