"Pappa, I'm in so much pain!" I cry, dragging my limp leg across the hall, looking for sympathy. Four days a week my parents listen to me moan and adjust my knee brace and hobble about with the same lithe elegance of Long John Silver.
"It's your own doing," father replies from his office. He disapproves of my karate lessons, mostly because I come back with a medley of bruises on my shins.
I stop in the hallway to flex muscles mostly held up by lactic acid. "Mamma, look at my muscles!"
"Yes, yes, very interesting." She stirs the soup simmering on the stove.
"You're not even looking!"
In other words, mother finds me less interesting than dinner.