Breaking the Cycle

Narrative

Sunday. It began like any other Sunday morning, at least on the surface. My partner wanted to rest after visiting friends the night before for a gathering. I wasn’t completely sure about attending that gathering to begin with—though I managed to find some moments of enjoyment, even if they were fleeting and solitary. It seemed the rest of the family enjoyed themselves too, enough that my child fell into a deep sleep afterward, without saying much.

Yet I had my reservations about the decision to go in the first place. The day before, my child’s behavior during homework had left much to be desired. We had agreed on a rule—no playing at friends’ houses if the behavior didn’t meet certain standards. But in the end, my concerns were dismissed. My partner argued that our child had behaved well enough for ten minutes before we left, and that cancelling at the last minute would damage our relationship with the other family. When I raised my concerns, I was told I didn’t understand the importance of maintaining human relationships—and so, once again, I was silenced.

Today, we faced yet another social obligation—a birthday party in the afternoon. I cancelled my child’s sports practice to make room for it, determined to prioritize the fragile threads of human connection, though I feared the same cycle would repeat itself—just as it had the day before.

As always, my child woke up around eight o’clock, and came into the study—ever since the incident I described in the prologue, I’ve been sleeping there instead of the master bedroom. He found me working on my computer and on two iPads—an idea originally suggested by my partner, which I had taken to heart. I was preparing reading programs for him, hoping to bring some order to the academic chaos. I’d already set up one of them the night before, hoping to share it with my partner, but that conversation had ended abruptly—she told me she was too tired and that nothing good could come from me.

This morning, my child crawled onto my bed in the study and started reading on the iPad. It seemed to engage him—he liked the variety of books, from picture books to chapter books, and everything in between. It felt good to see him immersed in something positive. Maybe, just maybe, I’d done something right. He even continued reading while he waited for breakfast. But there was a moment of frustration when I mentioned that one of his friends would be attending the same school as him, having secured a spot in a selective program.

After breakfast, I tried to get him started on his homework. I knew he didn’t like it—he saw it as an interruption, a dull obligation that pulled him away from the pursuits he found meaningful. And, to be fair, the weekday schedule is brutal—school pickup, after-school activities, dinner, the constant requests to watch entertaining videos, and bedtime routines—leaving little room for concentrated work. We had tried delaying bedtime to accommodate the homework, but that had only bred fatigue and frustration.

His resistance to homework had grown so intense that my partner had given up. She said she only wanted to do enjoyable things with him now. For her, homework was a burden—something she’d rather avoid by delegating it to me. So I became responsible for the morning work. There was a considerable amount of it that day, and he still struggled to focus. Even the simplest instructions—like putting down his toy—were met with resistance. He tried, as always, to negotiate the minimum amount of effort he could get away with.

After an hour and a half of back-and-forth—during which he struggled to remain respectful—I let him read on the iPad and asked what he wanted to do for a break. He chose board games. As expected, my partner came downstairs and began preparing lunch, right in the middle of our game.

And then came the interrogation: Why was I playing games instead of enforcing homework? What was I going to do about the unfinished assignments? Did I really think he deserved to go to the birthday party?

I had to be honest. Given his behavior during homework, I didn’t think he should go—and truthfully, the gathering the day before had been a mistake as well.

Predictably, my partner made sure our son heard those words from me. If someone had to be the villain in the story—the one who took the fun away—that role fell to me, not to her. And if I had to be the bad guy to make things right, then so be it.

Later, she volunteered to take him to Sunday school. Part of me appreciated that. But then she called me from the car. She said he had promised to behave better during homework time. She emphasized how important it was for him to catch up with his friends—and how he’d missed his chance to be in the same class as his friend.

There were two things I couldn’t agree with, though I kept those thoughts to myself. First, real change is measured in actions, not in promises. And second, friendships built on pressure and obligation rarely flourish.

After she dropped him off, she called me again—questioning my commitment to winning back her trust, and telling me that the work I did for the family and our child didn’t count as real effort in that regard.

I guess I’ve always been awkward with words—clumsy, even. Maybe it was foolish to try to explain myself. I said, “I don’t care that much about how much you trust me. I’ll still give this family everything I’ve got. I’ve realized I can’t change you, even though I’ve tried my best.” But I didn’t even get to finish the sentence—she cut me off right after I said, “I don’t care that much.”

The rest of the afternoon, I was left out of the family dinner. Part of me felt relieved. Mowing the grass and eating instant noodles gave me a kind of peace, however small. After our family usually ate separately, the time became my responsibility to work with our son on his online math class. By now, you can probably sense just how busy Sundays have become for my child.

After bedtime, I put up reminder signs on the bathroom door—an attempt to introduce a measure of order into the chaos. The idea wasn’t originally mine; it actually came from the boy himself. That struck me as significant—a small but meaningful signal that he, too, recognizes the need for structure and accountability.

The purpose of those signs wasn’t to enforce compliance through sheer force of will but to reduce the constant, draining repetition of nagging—to create an environment where he could make choices independently and live with the consequences of those choices. That’s how autonomy is developed: by offering freedom within the boundaries of responsibility.

If I were to name the small victories of the day, they would be the decision not to attend the birthday party—an act that, though painful, maintained the integrity of the discipline we’d agreed upon—and the fact that he managed to accumulate over two hours of reading time. Those small wins matter. They’re the seeds of larger growth, the first steps on the path from chaos to order, from dependence to independence.

Reflection

Reflecting on Day 0, I find myself grappling with the stark tension between order and chaos that defines family life. It’s a microcosm of the larger struggles we all face: how to set boundaries, how to uphold discipline, and how to maintain personal integrity in the face of resistance.

I made a rule—no playtime if homework wasn’t done properly. That rule was intended to teach accountability, a fundamental building block of character. Yet even that simple guideline fell victim to compromise, negotiation, and emotional entanglement. My partner overruled it, prioritizing social harmony over the principle of earned reward. I can understand her perspective—human relationships matter. But I also recognize the risk of teaching a child that performance can be traded for convenience.

I find myself repeatedly cast as the bad guy. And perhaps that’s necessary. Someone has to bear the burden of enforcing standards when the immediate cost is resentment, and the benefit is intangible, deferred. That’s the price of responsibility: the willingness to endure conflict for the sake of a better future.

Yet I can’t help but feel the weight of isolation—excluded from the family dinner, forced to find solace in the menial tasks of mowing the lawn and preparing instant noodles. It’s a reminder that virtue can be a lonely pursuit. And still, small victories matter: over two hours of reading time, a decision to skip the birthday party, and a structure put in place to help my child prepare for his bath. These may seem insignificant, but they’re the foundation upon which larger changes are built.

Real change is not measured by promises made under duress, but by consistent actions that stand the test of time. I cannot force trust, but I can model integrity. I cannot ensure love, but I can act with compassion and firmness. And in that balance—between strength and vulnerability—lies the path forward.