Yield to Domination
They cooked the broccoli. She only liked raw broccoli; they knew this, but they cooked the broccoli anyway. They were the only things—except a small streak of catsup—remaining on the plate: two dark-green, wilty, pieces of broccoli. Megan pushed her plate to the center of the table.
Dad pushed it back. Mom had given up long ago; she was in the living room reading. It was a two-person battle now.
“Uh uh.” She said. This time, pushing the plate all the way to the other side.
“Guess again,” Dad said. He pushed the plate back.
Megan saw that the broccoli was bigger; it was growing on her plate! She pushed it away; it came back—bigger still. This happened with each volley, until the two pieces of broccoli were practically falling off the edge of the dish.
“It’s too much,” Megan argued.
“It’s two bites,” Dad lied.
“But I’m full.”
His face turned red. “You ate everything else.”
“Well, everything else tasted good.” She scowled, and pushed the dish back.
It returned as a mountain. There was no way she could eat it all now.
She was trapped inside a forest of broccoli. Running among the huge stalks, she searched desperately for a way to escape. But there was only one way. She needed to stop it from growing and smothering her in green.
She grabbed a piece, so big she could hardly hold it in her hand, and started to scarf. She felt like she was going to throw up, but she finished it.
Her throat was dry and rough. She rinsed it with the last of her chocolate milk, and then begged Dad for more.
“After,” he said, gripping the carton tightly in his hand.
She’d fallen into a pit of choking, dry dust, and her father was shoveling more dirt over her. Megan held her hands to her throat, pleading for just a few ounces to be added to her empty glass.
“After,” he repeated.
She quickly forced the remaining tree into her mouth, breaking it down with rapid bites. It felt like eating a dirty sock, and probably tasted worse, but she finished chewing the last of it. Then, holding the empty glass high, she waited for him to keep his end of the bargain.
But instead of filling it, Dad begrudgingly poured the brown liquid barely a third of the way up.
She drank the soothing chocolate cream.
Both warriors, exhausted, collapsed on the floor.
Dad felt proud. He’d retained the helm of control.
Today it was his victory; she admitted her defeat. But they were both getting older; Megan knew that this worked to her advantage. Eventually, she would take control; broccoli would never be cooked again.