Some would say they were unreasonably intent on seeing their son drink milk. The problem was, he didn’t like it and he was nearly twenty-eight now.
Father came clambering down the stairs, nearly taking the banister with him and stammering about everything that had changed in the world. They couldn’t really understand him, but they knew that he was against progress.
Mother was doing her pull ups on the pull up bar that had been placed in the doorway, which was a pain for everyone because they often knocked their heads on it.
The son was called The King to Be, but in reality, he was an average, overtly pale man with a nose that seemed to point towards Australia (or at least that general direction).
“The King to Be! Get in here moon boy before your mother is done with her pull ups!” Shouted father as he poured milk into a large oven dish.
“I’m already done!” Shouted mother, who they sometimes called Ma, but rarely Mother Superior, except on special occasions, which were rare for all of the obvious reasons.
“Well get in here then! I’m pouring the milk!” Father could only converse in these punctuating sort of shouts that suggested a serious health condition was about to get the better of him. It was how he got his job in the government.
“I’m not going near milk,” shouted The King to Be from the other room. This was part of the reason he had a nervous disposition and identified as hard done by.
“At least let me have this,” said Mother, who was now whimpering. “Is it too much for a mother to ask to see her son drink some milk? You know I’ve been waiting twenty-eight years. Linda’s children drink milk and they’re moving up in the world.”
But there was a bigger problem brewing. Father was out of patience. He bulldozed through the fake partition wall and grabbed his son, The King to Be.
“You’re going to have the fucking milk,” he roared, carrying his son above his head.
The King to Be was screaming.
“Let me down! Let me down!”
“No chance!”
Father plonked him down by the oven dish of milk.
“Drink it!”
“No.”
“Fine! I will!” Roared father.
And true to his word, he drank the milk using his hand as a scoop, all while mother wept softly in the corner.
