My parents live in a new house. It’s beautiful, but my kids tried their best to change that this summer. In our first week there, my seven-year-old twins gouged several walls, wrote on my parents’ RV (just in dust, thankfully), and broke a banister.
Technically, Vivian and William didn’t break the whole banister: just a bracket that connected one of the railings to the wall (see Item 2, above). I was skipping downstairs when I noticed it.
“Dad?” I called. “One of the brackets is broken. Pretty sure it was Vivian and William swinging on the railings.”
Dad came to inspect.
“Sorry,” I added.
Mom looked down the stairwell, giving me a reassuring smile.
“Hmm,” Dad said, not overly concerned. “I’ll get a new bracket tomorrow.”
I made conversation. “The ones at the farm must have been much stronger. I swung on those railings all the time.”
Dad looked at me. “I replaced those brackets all the time.”
“Yes,” he said.
“That was you?” my mom asked. “We always blamed Steve.”
I climbed the stairs, more cautiously than normal. Dad followed.
“W-well,” I stuttered, trying to cover my tracks, “it was likely him too. He was a lot bigger.” It’d been a decade or two since I’d been able to blame my brother for something. “He is 6’4”,” I added, in case they didn’t know.
My mom smiled. My dad shook his head.
I continued. I have this tendency to over-explain things when I get into a quandary. “Well, I liked to challenge myself. If I used the railings to help me, I could make it up the stairs in three bounds and down in two.”
By this point, my parents were laughing. It’s not often they see their adult daughter backpedaling, making excuses for her behaviour twenty-some years ago.
“Uh. Sorry about that.”
What have you (had) broken?
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