Fancy Fish or the Last Cookie
 
Dinner at my house is the worst. I dread it. Yeah, I live in a mansion. With maids. And butlers. And personal chefs. And chauffeurs. And all of that other stuff like ten bathrooms and seven bajillion fluffy pillows. Sure, it sounds just fantastic. But it’s really not. I don’t have “normal” family conversations or days when I can eat out of ice-cream cartons. I get fancy little cracker trays with turkey and cheese and those little swords hold it all together. Or I get fillet-minions with sauce swirled around it on a fancy plate.
            You see, my dad’s a lawyer, the best one in New Jersey, which causes him to have cases all of the time. My moms a doctor, so she’s always working over time at the hospital. They aren’t happy. They don’t get along. And I’m miserable.
            My parents, they don’t care about me. Actually I wouldn’t doubt if they don’t know how old I am. I’ll see mom once a day. Maybe two, if I’m lucky. And my dad? Psh, I barely know what he looks like anymore. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s having an affair.
            All of my friends have five, maybe six, siblings. I’m the only child in my family, and I’m jealous of them. They all say I’m the lucky one here, but their the ones who always have someone to hang out with or to slam doors and scream at. I get maids to tell what to do, and chefs to tell how to cook my eggs.
            It sort of depresses me, when I’m home alone. It’s quiet, and the only noise I ever hear is my lemo taking every one out and about. It gets lonely and boring here. Sometimes I just run outside and sit in the road because I know no one is ever going to come.
            But when it gets to be dinner time, I sit in my extremely large living room with imported furniture and eat fancy cooked fish and watch reruns of Happy Days while my friends are sitting at their crowded table fighting with their siblings over whose going to get the last cookie.