John slammed his little palm on the table and shot to his feet. "Why should Dad have to cook?! Dad works all day and he's already tired enough! You just sit around the house doing nothing, and now you want him to cook too? You're so lazy you might as well be dead!"
I stared at my son, stunned.
"I cook. I do laundry. I clean the house. I pick you up from school and help you with your homework. And I still have to squeeze in time for my own work. How is that nothing?"
"I don't go to an office, but my life is not one bit easier than your father's!"
"Oh, please. Cooking and cleaning? That's not real work. You get to lounge around at home all day while Dad's out there busting his back to put food on the table!"
"All that house stuff is YOUR job. Dad already works so hard, and you want to make him cook on top of it? Are you trying to kill him?!"
I turned to look at Vincent.
A six-year-old doesn't come up with words like that on his own. Someone had been feeding him this garbage, drilling it into his head that I did nothing all day.
So that was how Vincent saw it. Everything I did was worthless.
"All right then. I'll go get a job, and Dad can stay home with you."