“You heard me,” said your mom. “When your too small to look after yourself I’m not helping you.”
You can only stare at her in disbelief. Sure, your mom had never done anything for you that she could not tell you to do yourself, but that only applied to the things you could do yourself. The fact that you were alive right now meant she had to have taken care of you when you were a helpless infant. Surely she would help you when you physically too small to take care of yourself, right? Right?
“You’re … you’re kidding, right?” you said weakly.
Your mother gives you a look you know only to well, equal parts exasperation and annoyance.
“I’m … I’m serious, wrong,” she sneers, making fun of your frayed nerves.
You do not know why you are surprised. You do not know why your mom took care of you as a baby, but whatever charitable feelings she had to you back then have clearly worn off by now. It is bad enough that you are going to shrink away to nothing, but now you will probably die even before that; probably starved to death like some rodent that cannot find any food.
You want nothing more then to go to your room and hope you shrink quickly (how sad is that?), but before you can leave to latibulate, your mom hums thoughtfully.
“Actually,” she starts, “maybe I could be convinced to look after you.” Her eyes flash wickedly.
You gulp. You know this look too. Your mom wants something, probably at your expense. There is no grantee she will even keep her word to look after you; she has broken thousands of promises over the years. But what choice do you have?
“What do I have to do?” No sense in beating around the bush.
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