Trigger warnings include swearing, physical violence, verbal abuse
I remember vividly sitting in my kitchen when we had the dining table in it. I was sitting on the chair closest to the pantry with my legs swinging (my feet barely touched the tile) and listening to my dad talk about how I needed to finish getting dressed. What he meant by 'dressed' was putting my socks on. For an unknown reason (I had undiagnosed Sensory Processing Disorder at the time) I hated the feeling of the seams on my socks, and wanted them inside out or none at all.
Of course having socks inside out was r****d behavior so I was crying. I think it's pretty reasonable to cry at five or six after being called the R-slur. After crying my dad gave up, shouted at me what I wanted to shut up, and I told him soup.
He sighed and started making it while I continued swinging my legs at the table, wiping my cheeks dry because he didn't want my mom to know I had cried. It was fucked up now that I think about it but I legitimately thought this was normal, being forced to dry your tears so someone else wouldn't know you cried.
Once my dad finished with making tomato soup, he set it in front of me and it was bright red, fresh from the soup can red, and I immediately knew something was odd. I took a sip, my dad whining about how gross it was to slurp my soup. I swallowed and practically threw up. I pushed the soup away and sat back in my chair, my dad staring at me with disbelief.
"It tastes like tomatos." I remember saying explicitly, and my dad exploded. He grabbed my chair and shoved it into the table, my chest squished against the table and unable to move. I started crying because it hurt and he just screamed at me how I was an ungrateful brat, how I didn't deserve to eat. He grabbed my leg and picked up a sock, shoving it on my foot. In the process of me screaming and crying for him to leave me alone and hyperventilating, he cut my foot and I kicked him in the chest, making a run for it to my bathroom. He luckily didn't follow me and was just shouting from the kitchen.
An hour after hiding in the bathroom I heard my mom come home. Apparently she had gotten a ride from a friend since we failed to pick her up from Minneapolis. I trudged downstairs, sniffling with the dogs following me and I sat back down in the kitchen as my mom entered our house. I told her I had a good day, dad made me soup.
My dad didn't say the same thing. He started complaining to my mom about how I refused to eat my soup and I was being an ungrateful brat. My mom sighs and checks my soup, instantly frowning. She tried it and grimaced, then turned to my dad and asked what he made it with.
He said nothing, he out the soup in the pot and heated it. My dad made tomato soup by just heating it up. No milk, no water, nothing. Just the canned tomato paste. It was disgusting.
My mom then starts asking him how he didn't know he needed to put something in and he responds with "how was I supposed to know?" Like an imbecile.
And my mom, oh my lovely Angel of a mother, holds up the can and points to the directions. "It's on the can, jackass." I remember her saying with a smile. My dad being an angry pissy toddler stomped off to play video games.
I got actual soup from my mom and she apologized for what happened. We watched a movie after dinner and I went to bed at eight o'clock since it was Sunday and I had school the next day.
