“Because you’re ungrateful,” Mam interjected, looking beyond hurt. “All of those fancy computer games lining the shelves in your bedroom were paid for with oil-stained hands. Every stitch of clothes on your body and every morsel of food you’ve put in your mouth since the day you were born came from those same hands. Your father’s hands. Your father the mechanic, who has spent most of his life busting his bollocks to give his children a better life than the one he had.”
TELL HIM TRISH
