"I cook. I do laundry. I clean the house. I pick you up from school and help you with your homework. And I still have to squeeze in time for my own work. How is that nothing?"

"I don't go to an office, but my life is not one bit easier than your father's!"

"Oh, please. Cooking and cleaning? That's not real work. You get to lounge around at home all day while Dad's out there busting his back to put food on the table!"

"All that house stuff is YOUR job. Dad already works so hard, and you want to make him cook on top of it? Are you trying to kill him?!"

I turned to look at Vincent.

A six-year-old doesn't come up with words like that on his own. Someone had been feeding him this garbage, drilling it into his head that I did nothing all day.

So that was how Vincent saw it. Everything I did was worthless.

"All right then. I'll go get a job, and Dad can stay home with you."

"How much could you possibly earn? Besides, all you do is doodle. You can do that at home. Why would you need to go anywhere?"

"If we had to survive on what you make, this whole family would starve!"

The truth was, I earned far more than Vincent did.

I was a professional illustrator. I drew artwork for bestselling books by well-known authors. Vincent was just an ordinary sales rep, and if it weren't for me feeding him client referrals, he wouldn't even hit his base salary.

In that moment, something clicked.

Maybe John's problem with my cooking had nothing to do with the taste. He looked down on me. Deep down, my own son thought I was beneath him, and that made everything I touched beneath him too.

Vincent reached over and squeezed my hand. "Babe, he's just a kid. He doesn't know what he's saying. Don't take it to heart."

John shoved his bowl away. "I'm done. I'm going to play with Lily!"

And just like that, he bolted out the door to Nora's place.

I took a breath. Steadied myself.

"Go bring him back."

Vincent left.

I waited. And waited. Neither of them came back.

Finally I walked over to Nora's and knocked on the door myself.

Nora opened it, saw me, and let out a little laugh.

"The two of them are in there eating."

Vincent was hunched over a plate, grease glistening on his lips. He looked up and grinned. "Babe, no wonder Johnny won't eat your food. Your cooking really can't hold a candle to Nora's!"