My heart breaks

The memory is still so vivid. I must have been seven, as the first of my brothers was just a babe. My father came to pick us up from the child-minder. He scooped up my brother who shot the sitter a sour look. "He's thinking, 'Fuck you," I offered helpfully. "Excuse me?" my father asked. "Um, he's thinking, 'Fuck you," I repeated, already knowing that somehow I'd gotten wrong. How my poor father got us out of there without melting into the floor, I do not know. But I still remember the lecture...