Why does that woman irritate me so much? Creed’s right, I shouldn’t hate her because she doesn’t make the choices I would.
But seriously, walking around in silk pajamas, even if they aren’t especially revealing pajamas, in the middle of winter is just ridiculous unless she’s trying to flaunt herself.
How could she know that I would drive up just now?
I’m just getting irritated at her over nothing. As I set my own garbage can at the end of the driveway, the pizza delivery kid comes to a stop by me.
“Hey, Havoc.”
“Hey.” I hand the kid a fifty and take my pizza boxes. “Tell your dad I said hi.”
“Will do. Have a nice night.” The kid speeds off.
I turn around and find the hot neighbor glaring at me. What is her problem?
Her angry eyes follow me as I walk up to my door. “What is your problem?” The words burst out.
“I don’t have a problem,” her mouth says one thing, but her eyes say something else.
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t. I had some lemon and miso-glazed salmon for dinner. Your son, it seems, hasn’t had anything, and it’s afterten o’clock at night. A growing boy needs healthy, well-balanced meals.”
She didn’t.
But she did.
After I just helped her. “Woman, are you crazy? I’m feeding my son.”
“Yes. I can see that.” But that isn’t stopping her from judging.
“People eat pizza. Even stuck-up city dwellers must on occasion partake of it.”
“I might be stuck-up, but at least I’m not—”
The front door opens, and Creed pops his head out. “Everything okay? I heard shouting. Oh, hey, Greer.” The kid smiles and waves at her.
“Hey, Creed.”
Where did her angry face go? Now she’s all smiles and friendly.
“Oh, good, the pizza’s here. I’m starving. I probably should have had some of the pot roast earlier like you said.” There’s no way Creed wasn’t listening in on the security system. “Pizza’s getting cold. Let’s eat, Dad. Night, Greer.”
“Night, Creed.”
I stomp inside, muttering, “That woman is so rude.”
Thinking Of Her
Havoc
That irritating woman invaded my dreams last night, probably because I went to bed mad at her, which makes me furious. Who does she think she is, judging my parenting skills?
“Those eggs look whipped instead of scrambled.” Creed walks past me to grab a cup of coffee.
They are a bit frothy. “I thought I’d make you an omelet today.” More like I’m going to find a way to put vegetables in Creed’s food just to show this woman that I’m a good parent.
This is stupid. She doesn’t see the inside of my home. A single woman has no right to judge a parent. My son is well fed, cared for, loved, and protected while being taught how to be an independent member of society and all that important stuff. Just because I didn’t make him some fancy-sounding fish dish with steamed vegetables at exactly five doesn’t mean I’m a bad parent.
