Ninety-Nine Times Does It
On it was a single number—99.
It was the number of times they had let me down over the years.
Adrian frowned, unable to make sense of it.
He tossed my diary onto the floor and ordered, "Stop writing this nonsense. Nina wants to eat the garlic shrimp you make. Go wash your hands and get downstairs. Consider it an apology for that snarky remark you made to her earlier."
I only hummed in response before I got up and headed downstairs.
Adrian was surprised that I didn't throw a tantrum. After all, every time my family asked me to make garlic shrimp, I would always cry and whine as if it were some huge injustice.