An excerpt from a conversation I had with my eldest son Thatcher this week after I told his younger brother Haddon he couldn’t go with me down the block to get the mail (he hadn’t finished his dinner). With the tearful protests of his brother as background music, Thatcher, crossing his arms, began:
“Dad, I’m going to stay here until you let Haddon go with us.” His face twisted in displeasure, feet planted firmly, frozen in determination.
“Okay, stay here,” I nonchalantly replied, walking out the door.
– Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov