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.