
The Temperature of Love"This is a notice regarding proper use of the air conditioning. Please sign to acknowledge receipt."
My six-year-old son stood there with a stern little frown, slapping a sheet of paper down in front of me.
I glanced at the page. Written in colorful marker were several neatly listed "charges." The whole thing felt absurd.
When I did not respond, he pointed at the paper like a tiny adult.
"Mom, you didn't turn the air down in time yesterday. That could've affected my health. It was very irresponsible."
I looked toward my husband, who had just gotten home from work, hoping he would say something, anything, in my defense.
Instead, he snatched up the paper and slapped it down on the table, his voice sharp.
"Can't you be more attentive? Our son's health comes first. If you can't even handle something this simple, what kind of mother are you?"
With someone backing him up, our son's eyes immediately reddened. He burst into tears.
"Mom doesn't love me!"
The two of them, playing judge and jury, left me suddenly breathless.
"Fine," I said at last. "If I'm such an unfit mother, I'll leave. Let your father find you a new one, someone who knows how to set the air conditioning properly."