"You don't like me, but you like your mother, haha."

Yesterday, I visited my parents for some pastries, tea, and a chat. (Let's call them Bob and Mary.) Within minutes of us sitting down, Bob yelled at Mary for interrupting his monologue to offer us extra fruit. "Can you stop interrupting me? You don't talk until I'm done talking!"

The younger me would have intervened and confronted Bob, only for the situation to escalate and for Mary to call me later, asking me why I'm so disrespectful to the man who raised me. She'd make excuses. She'd remind me of his good side, of his traumatic past. She'd harp on his dedication to paying the bills and the fact that he'd never cheated on her. "He's also never hit me," she'd say, like my abuse never happened. "Kids can handle it. It's how we discipline them." I'd ask her why she doesn't leave someone like Bob. She'd say, "I'm too old and useless now." Then she'd cry. She might even bounce back to asking me to reconcile. "No one will ever love you like your parents, you know?"

I bit my tongue and leaned away, disgust on my face. If Bob noticed, he didn't show it. Mary disappeared into the kitchen, smile gone. Bob's eyes lit up, and he picked up the thread of his monologue. He had ironically interrupted Mary when she mentioned a biopic she was watching, rattling off his opinions before Mary had a chance to share what she liked about it.

Bob doesn't notice when people are turned off. Bob's like a honey badger; Bob don't give a shit.

Bob ran out of opinions about Mary's new show -- no, he wasn't watching it -- and Mary got a chance to share what she'd learned so far, between sweetly offering him more fruit and pouring him tea. The conversation migrated to current politics. Bob looked at me and dipped his toe in the water. "I know you don't like to hear me talk about this, but I blame the Jews."

I nodded and made an unamused hum, glancing at Mary. She wasn't bothered. She'd read Currency Wars.

We started grasping for different topics to talk about. I excused myself to go home and do chores. I smiled and hugged Mary, and as I turned to hug Bob, he chuckled and said, "You don't like me, but you like your mother." He wanted reassurance. I just hugged him. I heard his breath catch. I managed to shut the car door before the sorrow caught up to me.

Bob notices when people are turned off. Bob's a lost boy in a tyrant's body.