Mrs. Quincy, in the living room, listened to the faint laughter drifting from the backyard, tears of grievance rolling down her cheeks.
She went to Mr. Quincy to cry and complain again. "I worked so hard to deliver soup, and they had the nerve to say I was trying to stuff his daughter to death! How ungrateful! Starting tomorrow, I wash my hands of this whole thing."
"Do whatever you want. Those words don't scare anyone," Mr. Quincy replied.
"You! Can't you say a few words in my defense?" Mrs. Quincy seethed with anger. "You always take their side!"
"It's not that I don't want to help you, but you're making a fuss out of nothing. Cecilia's grandmother and the auntie made the soup; you just delivered it. How is that hard work? Ian has been stressed with his studies lately. If you do a bit more, say a bit less, and avoid annoying him and affecting his academics, that would be your greatest contribution. Do you understand?"
