Chapter 5: The Chicken Nugget Incident

Dad and Mom fought again. The air crackled with the tension, making even the wallpaper seem to curl at the edges.

Because Angela fell down the stairs. The whole house felt like it was holding its breath.

Mom didn’t touch her. I saw it—clear as daylight.

Angela never said Mom did either. She just sat there, wrapped in a blanket, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

She just looked at Dad with red eyes and said timidly, “Mark, it’s not Lisa’s fault, I was just careless…” Her voice barely above a whisper.

Mom looked shocked. “I didn’t.” Her voice was sharp, trembling.

Dad gritted his teeth. “Fine, you didn’t.” He said it like an accusation, not a comfort.

He gave her a cold look and took Angela to the hospital. The front door slammed behind them, rattling the picture frames.

I grabbed Dad’s hand. My small fingers barely wrapped around two of his.

I wanted to say: Mom didn’t push Aunt Angela—I saw it, she fell on purpose. The words pounded in my chest.

But I couldn’t say it. My lips wouldn’t part, tongue thick and useless in my mouth.

The story took away my voice again. I felt trapped, caged by something invisible.

That frustration lit a small fire inside me. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms.

I wanted to scream and shout. The urge burned like acid in my throat.

But I couldn’t lose my temper. I remembered Nanny Linda's words—"Keep calm, even when it's unfair."

Nanny Linda once said, the more a manipulative sweetheart frames you, the more you must keep calm. She'd told me this as she tucked me in one night, her voice gentle and wise.

I begged, “Dad, don’t go. Can’t we call the doctor to come here?” My voice was small but desperate.

But Dad’s face grew darker. His jaw clenched, and he shook his head slowly.

“Lisa, you’re even using the child now? Don’t make me lose respect for you.” His voice was hard as stone, his eyes flat.

Mom looked like she was about to break, biting her lip, eyes red. She held her breath, fighting not to cry.

“Mark, maybe you should get your head checked at the hospital.” Her words were like ice, but you could hear the pain beneath.

They parted on bad terms again. The silence after their argument was louder than their voices.

I couldn’t understand. I sat at the top of the stairs, knees pulled up to my chest, trying to make sense of it all.

Why? Why couldn't they just hear each other?

Why was it like this? Wasn't family supposed to stick together?

Why couldn’t it be explained? I felt like screaming, but I just hugged my knees tighter.

Why was Mom always blamed? It didn't seem fair, and it made my stomach twist.

In my small body, I carried big worries—my back almost bending under the weight. At night, my shoulders ached, as if I really were carrying the whole world.

Until something happened at preschool, and I realized that some things really are impossible to explain. The universe has rules that make no sense, not even to grownups.

People’s prejudice is an invisible wall, perfectly separating perception from the truth. Some people will always see what they want to see.

A new girl, Bella, wanted a piece of chicken from my lunchbox. Her hair was in neat braids, her shoes sparkly and new.

She could’ve just asked, but instead, she tried to grab it. Her hand darted in, fast as a squirrel.

She didn’t even grab it properly, just fell on her own. She landed with a thump and started wailing.

She wailed, tears streaking her face so fast you’d think she was auditioning for a soap opera.

“My chicken, my chicken! Abby, don’t grab my chicken, and don’t push me, okay?” Her voice was dramatic, like a TV actress.

Everyone comforted her, shooting me reproachful looks. My friends edged away, whispering behind their hands.

I said loudly, “You grabbed my chicken! I didn’t grab yours.” I stood my ground, but my voice shook.

But Bella blinked, then pitifully put a piece of chicken from her box into mine. She made a show of generosity, glancing at the teacher to make sure she was watching.

“Abby, don’t be mad. I’ll give you my chicken too.” She sniffled, her lips trembling.

That chicken had gristle and teeth marks—she’d already chewed it and didn’t want it. The sight made my stomach turn.

She was actually trying to gross me out. Her eyes sparkled with mean delight.

“I don’t want it.” I pushed the piece away, feeling angry and small.

But Bella’s lunchbox fell. Chicken nuggets skittered across the linoleum, and someone’s juice box burst, sticky apple scent filling the air.

The teacher who always liked me scolded me sharply: “Abby, you can’t be so rude.” Her face was stern, disappointment clear.

I was stunned, then snapped. The world tilted, and I felt my control slip away.

I didn’t want to be bullied like my mom. I refused to be the victim.

I threw her lunchbox, my lunchbox, and the boxes of everyone who defended her. My hands moved on their own, a rush of adrenaline making me bold.

If I couldn’t eat in peace, then no one would. My classmates shrieked, chicken flying everywhere.

That day, it became a big deal. The teacher's voice was a siren, calling for order.

The teacher called my parents. Her lips were tight, her eyes cold as she made the call.

Mom came and chose to believe me. She stood taller than I’d ever seen her, voice steady as she demanded to see the security footage.

The video clearly showed it was Bella who grabbed my chicken. The truth played out, frame by frame.

But then Bella’s parents arrived—Dad and Angela. They swept in, all concern and hurried footsteps.

Bella cried and threw herself into Dad’s arms. She clung to him, sobbing loudly, her voice echoing off the walls.

“Daddy, I thought my chicken ran into Abby’s box so I went to get it. I was just hungry and wanted to eat chicken. Daddy, don’t ignore me.” Her sobs sounded rehearsed, practiced.

That day, the truth came out. But the adults only seemed to care about the mess, not the reason behind it.

But things only got worse. The phone rang all evening—teachers, other parents, everyone wanting their say.

Each call made the house feel smaller, the walls closing in.

The teacher said I had a bad temper and flipped over other people’s lunchboxes. The words felt like a stain I couldn't wash away.

Mom and Dad had a huge fight—arguing about why Angela had a child, why Bella called Dad ‘Daddy’. Their voices rose, echoing through the house.

Angela cried, threatened to leave, and then fainted. The hospital found her heart condition had worsened. Dad rushed her to the ER, barely glancing back at us.

Grandma said Mom didn’t teach me well—even Benjamin Franklin knew to put others first, but I was so petty over a piece of chicken. Her words stung, shrinking me down until I felt two inches tall.

Everyone went to the hospital to visit Angela. They brought her flowers and cards, filling her room with sympathy.

Only Mom stayed with me. We sat together on the porch, the evening air heavy and still.

We stared at each other, both feeling depressed and isolated. The silence was thick, but at least we were together in it.

For the first time, I truly felt the loneliness and helplessness Mom must have experienced, unable to defend herself. The world was unfair, and even grownups couldn't fix it.

I asked, “Mom, is it because I’m not good that Dad became Bella’s dad?” My voice was small, my heart aching.

But what I really wanted to ask was: Mom, is it because I dragged you down that things got worse?