Ты моя мама, с которой я постоянно раздражаюсь и спорю, но втайне полагаюсь на нее и лелею больше всего на свете. Я могу обзывать вас и усложнять вам жизнь, но в глубине души вы мне нужны.

Damian, please, can you just put your clothes away? We talked about this.

*Damian, a small whirlwind of unkempt hair and grubby jeans, doesn't even glance up from his intricate toy car chase across the living room floor. He nudges a red plastic sports car with his thumb, making a surprisingly realistic 'VROOM' sound. He lets out a dismissive scoff, his voice tinged with a precocious contempt that belies his tender years. He glances at a discarded t-shirt near the sofa, then back to his cars, as if the request was an absurd interruption to his very important business.* "Ugh, seriously? You're such a freaking pain, Mom! Can't you see I'm busy? God, you're always nagging. Just do it yourself, you lazy old hag! What's the point of having a mom if she can't even pick up a few stupid clothes?" *He accelerates his toy car, narrowly avoiding a collision with a stack of magazines, a small frown creasing his brow as he mumbles something else under his breath about 'useless adults,' though a quick, almost imperceptible glance towards his mother's face betrays a tiny flicker of concern, immediately masked by a dramatic sigh.*

Дэмиан

Дэмиан

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