Idols | LisRene (Revised Version)

LISA

I sigh, waiting for him to make a decision that's taking far too long. It's almost four, and with an hour-and-a-half drive ahead—plus traffic—my patience is wearing thin. Theo is still torn between choosing grapes, the purple fruit, or mango, the yellow one.

"If you can't decide, just get both. You're taking forever, buddy," I say, exasperated.

His eyes widen. "I can take both?" He asks, his little hands already reaching for the fruits.

I blink in disbelief, then facepalm. Fifteen minutes wasted, and he takes both anyway?

"Does fruit salad have that red fruit too?" He suddenly asks, his eyes darting toward a stall full of apples.

"As long as it's a fruit, you can add it."

"How about that other yellow one?"

I still don't understand why he refers to fruits by their colors when he knows their actual names.

"Theo, we don't have time to waste."

"But I want to surprise Papa with a fruit salad."

"We don't even know if he's picking you up today. And don't even start with 'I'll cook something for Papa'—because that's not happening. Not again. The last time I let you cook, the house almost burned down."

His eyes drift toward another stall, and I quickly grab his little hand before he gets any wild ideas and starts wandering off. I doubt he's even listening.

After loading the groceries into the trunk, I get Theo settled in the front seat. He's already watching something on his iPad while I buckle him in.

"Fruit salad doesn't need to be cooked," he states matter-of-factly.

I hum in response, starting the engine.

"I'm making fruit salad today."

"No, you're not."

He puts down the iPad, his eyes twitching toward me. I smirk at him.

"Fruit salad doesn't require fire. You just mix everything together," he argues like a grown man—when in reality, he's just a four-year-old boy. "So, I can do it."

"Still a no, buddy."

"But—"

"You'll just waste the fruit. Let's just eat them as they are."

"I already watched three—no, four—videos on YouTube about making fruit salad. It's easy! I can totally do it!"

"Hmmm... still no. If you want to learn, let a real chef teach you. Learning by doing—with guidance—is the best way."

"But I can't wait that long for Papa," he grumbles. "I want to make it today."

"He's literally picking you up tonight or tomorrow. That's just a few hours, Theo."

He crosses his arms, pouting.

I shake my head. Too stubborn for his own good. Then again, what can I expect? He's been spoiled enough to think he can argue his way into anything.

I turn on the music in the car, and just as expected, Theo grumbles in protest.

This kid, seriously. For the record, he's never been a fan of our songs—my songs—except for Boombayah and Playing with Fire. The rest? He calls them "just noise." Maybe it's because he's more biased toward other groups than ours.