Duh! How I hate those 17 minutes.
17 minutes is the time I require to pick my son (in Lower KG)
from his school, cross a road and drop in his crèche where, he’ll be put up
till evening, and walk back to my workplace. I am the worst version of myself
for those few minutes, when he cries his lungs out with tears flowing down his
cheeks, pleading me to take him home, while me ignoring him but apologizing
silently.
If only I could.
This is what all parents go through, consoles my friend. But
sigh!
I am sure a couple of decades later, he will get me admitted
into an old-age home, relishing at his revenge.
I shouldn’t cry now.
I have to
stock up my tears to cry then.
