“What are you eating?”
That was the question I posed to my mother, who was sitting directly in front of me in the car.
“I’m not eating anything.”
“Yes you are. I can tell!”
She was definitely eating something. I could hear her rustling around up there, digging through a bag. I bet it was candy. I was eight and I wanted some.
“I’m not eating anything!”
“Yes you are! Give me some candy!”
My sister was beside me, and she could probably tell what my mom was eating. But she wasn’t helping any. She just sat there quietly. It was killing me.
“Dammit, Stewie, I’m not eating anything. Now shut up!”
“YES YOU ARE! YOU ARE EATING CANDY! YOU HATE ME!”
It was then Joy spoke up. “Yeah, mom, you should give Stewie some of that candy you are eating, so he knows you don’t hate him.”
Now we were talking.
“What? What are you talkin… Okay, fine, Stewie, give me your hand,” my mom relented.
I shoved my hand up front, and I felt my mom put a couple pieces of candy in it. I whipped my little hand back and shoved the candy in my mouth without even seeing what kind of candy it was.
Except it wasn’t candy at all.
I realized this as soon as I bit down. It was kind of tasteless, but not really and the not really part was gross. It also had a disgusting texture to it.
Joy was looking at me, smirking. “So, how’s the candy?”
I spit whatever it was out in my hand. It was brown and mushy.
“EWWWWWWWWWWW! What is this? THIS ISN’T CANDY!” I felt the tears of rage coming on.
“It’s dog food,” my mom said. “I told you I wasn’t eating candy.”
My sister was laughing. Hard. “Stewie eats dog food!”
And my mother fed it to me on my sister’s suggestion while my father said nothing.
“I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU ALL!” I screamed. If we weren’t in a moving vehicle, I would have ran off crying.
Seriously, there’s something wrong with my family.