How To Apply 'Words Speak Louder Than Actions' In Parenting?

After I found out my Alpha mate, Bruce, couldn't let go of his ex-mate, Fiona, and her pup, I started teaching our son to call him "Alpha Bruce." When our son had a fever, Fiona called my mate away in the middle of the night. I touched my son’s burning forehead and had him say, "Goodbye, Alpha." When he bailed on the birthday party he’d promised our son because Fiona called, crying that her own son didn't have a father, I didn't even look up. I just had our son explain to the guests, "The Alpha has something important to do." Our son always hesitated for a long time. Until Bruce finally realized how much he’d failed us. He suggested we take a family portrait. But at the studio, Fiona called again, sobbing. “Bruce, can you please come and pretend to be Tony’s dad? The kids at daycare are making fun of him for not having one…” A flicker of guilt crossed Bruce’s face. He was about to kneel and explain it to our son. But this time, our son didn't need my cue. He just waved. “It’s okay, Alpha Bruce. Go be with your other pup. Mom and I are enough for the family photo.”

Parents like to say every child is a part of them. In our house, I was but a splinter under the skin. Mom and Dad were a blended couple. They could not bring themselves to truly punish my stepbrother and stepsister, so they had me and turned me into their cautionary example. When my brother came last in his class, Dad locked me in a dog crate under the blazing sun to teach him what happened to people who refused to study. When my sister started dating too young, Mom drugged me and dumped me in a homeless encampment to show her what could happen if she was not careful. Then one day, Dad found a takeout receipt in the trash. He forced poisoned food into my mouth and made me swallow. "Today, I am going to teach you all a real lesson. This is what happens when you eat whatever you want behind our backs." Even as I coughed blood and writhed on the floor, Dad threw me into the punishment room. My brother and sister rushed to confess and begged Mom to let me out. But Mom only said coldly, "You two will learn this lesson properly today. When you have learned it, I will let him out." I sat on the floor as blood soaked through my shirt. As my consciousness faded, I finally understood. Dad, your last cautionary lesson had to be taught with my life.

Ever since I find out that my CEO husband, Rowan Goodwin, is incapable of letting his first love, Megan Dolton—who's divorced and has a child of her own—go, I begin teaching our son, Ryan Goodwin, to address Rowan as "Mr. Goodwin" all the time. When Ryan is burning up with a fever, Megan chooses to summon Rowan away from us in the middle of the night. As I caress Ryan's scalding forehead, I instruct him to tell Rowan, "Goodbye, Mr. Goodwin." When Rowan has agreed to attend the teacher-parent conference with Ryan, Megan calls him with tears streaking down her cheeks, claiming that her own son, Nelson Herrera, doesn't have a father to accompany him. So, Rowan doesn't hesitate to ditch us once again. Without bothering to raise my head, I pass my phone to Ryan so that he can take leave for "Mr. Goodwin" in the parents' group chat. Every time, Ryan always hesitates for a long time before carrying out my orders. Later on, Rowan finally realizes that he has owed us far too much. So, he takes the initiative to suggest that we take a family portrait together. When we reach the photography studio, Megan calls Rowan once again. Her sobs can be heard drifting from the loudspeaker. "Rowan, can you please come over and pick Nelson up from school? The children at the kindergarten keep making fun of him for not having a father…" Pity crosses Rowan's expression immediately. He's about to crouch down and explain to Ryan when the latter just waves airily at him without me having to nudge him. "It's fine, Mr. Goodwin. You should accompany the other child. Mommy and I are the only ones needed for the family portrait."

When Mom punishes me, her palms are sweaty. I know she's even more nervous than I am. She's scared that others will accuse her of favoring me. When the rest of my classmates perform poorly in class, all she does is tell them to review the lesson and do a few more exercises. But when I'm the one who does badly, she points at the field outside the window. Despite the burning midday heat of June, she commands, "Julia Swanson! You're going to stand out on the field and memorize all the words you messed up. You're not allowed to come back in until you know everything by heart!" Everyone in the classroom looks at me. One of my classmates mutters, "Ms. Campbell is being way too hard on her own daughter." Mom hears that comment, and her eyes flash with satisfaction. That's precisely what she wants everyone to see. No one will dare say she's biased toward me if she punishes me the most harshly out of all the students. "Why are you still here?" she barks at me. "Get out. You think you can get into a top college with grades like yours?" The classmate sitting next to me tugs on my sleeve and whispers, "Why don't you try asking her to go easier on you? It's blazing hot outside." I shake my head. The most futile thing I can ever do is ask Mom to go easier on me in school. She prides herself on her professionalism as a teacher. It's a matter of principle to her. But she has forgotten that it's over 104 degrees Fahrenheit outside. Not wanting to disappoint her, I stand out in the sun. The blazing hot air dries up my sweat—and my tears. Eventually, my vision goes blurry. The world seems to spin around me… As I collapse onto the ground, I hear Mom tell her colleague, "I'll just get a popsicle as a gesture and bring that stubborn daughter of mine back inside later." She has no idea that I won't be able to accept her olive branch anymore.

My words can kill. Whatever I say comes true. When I was eight, my cruel adoptive father kicked me into an icy river. I glared at him and said furiously, "You'll drown if you go into water." The next day, he drowned in a stinking ditch where the water barely reached his knees. After realizing I could really kill people, I was so scared I stopped talking and became a mute. A year ago, I was taken back to the Shaw family. In order to stay with the family that I'd finally found after all these years, I absolutely refused to speak. But one day, after Jackie Shaw took a sip of the drink I brought him, he suddenly convulsed and fell to the floor, his face turning purple. A maid screamed in terror, "There's peanut powder in the drink!" Before I could even say anything, my twin sister, Violet, kicked the coffee table, grabbed my hair, and pressed me down hard onto the broken glass shards. "You know Jackie is severely allergic to peanuts! How could you poison him?!" After Mom gave Jackie an emergency injection, she turned around and slapped me hard. "I can't believe I gave birth to a malicious monster like you!" Dad's face was ashen. He splashed boiling tea all over me. "You heartless, vicious ingrate! I can't believe you tried to kill Jackie out of jealousy!" Boiling water mixed with blood dripped down my face, and I clenched my teeth tightly. They had no idea that if I truly wanted him dead, I wouldn't even need to poison him. I just had to speak. Like this. I slowly looked up at Jackie, and my lips moved...

Dad was terrified of being laughed at. Every holiday, he only ever said one thing. “Do not embarrass me.” The relatives were sitting around chatting when I accidentally knocked over a fruit platter on the table. He grabbed me right there and slapped me across the face. At dinner, I reached for a second helping of pot roast, and he kicked my chair out from under me. Later, when it was time to hand out gift cards, Uncle Ray miscounted and came up one short. Without a word, Dad shoved me out into the hallway in nothing but a thin shirt. The cold cut straight through me. I pounded on the door while I cried and apologized. He did not make a sound. He turned to Uncle Ray with an apologetic smile and said, “Sorry about that. I guess I have not taught this kid any manners.” He did not know that his lessons had already conditioned me to flinch at the phrase “laughed at.” Every time I heard it, I froze and felt myself shut down. When I heard him say it again through the closed door, I turned in silence and walked toward the dark bridge at the edge of the neighborhood. I did not know what I planned to do. I only knew I wanted the noise in my head to stop. I reached the railing and stared at the water below. One thought crossed my mind. “Dad, this time, no one will ever laugh at you because of me again.”