I watched the light drain from the day through the petals of the tulips on the kitchen table.
Beside them on the table was a cold mug of drinking chocolate, a thick and wrinkled skin covering its surface, and a packet of biscuits.
“Do you want to die?” shouted the secondborn.
It was a difference of opinion over the biscuits. Those on the table were not the right sort. I was ordered to go out and buy a different sort.
I had said no, and was sticking to it, had stuck to it for nearly two hours of screaming tantrum and was still saying no in the face of threatened annihilation.
I was very tired.
“Yes” I said. “Yes, I want to die.”