Salt

“Amoafoa how many times have I told you not to put so much salt in the stew? Why do you want to kill someone in this house? Why can’t you do something right for once? Jesus!” I snarled at my wife, banging the table with one hand and pushing the food away with the other. Somewhere in my conscience it registered that she didn’t deserve what I said. But then what was said was said, and I wasn’t about to apologise. Not me.
Ever the graceful woman, Amoafoa got up quietly and left the table without a word. I restrained the urge to call out another insult at her. I wanted her to yell at me. I wanted a fight. But all I got was our eight year old Akua bursting into tears at the table.
“Ah crap, what’s it now? Why are you crying? Is it something I said?” I asked her, trying to be gently, but she only cried louder.
“Daddy didn’t mean that Akua, stop crying.” When that didn’t work either, I tried a sterner “Stop crying young lady, you’re growing up.”
Slowly Akua looked up at me with tear-stained eyes.
“I…just…wanted…to…help…Ma…cook for you, now I’ve made you angry!” she bawled, the last few words coming out in a rush.

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