It wasn’t so much that they were bad kids, far from it (they were generally polite and particularly well groomed) but their table-manners were completely atrocious.
When they did manage to sit together for dinner (and this was a rare occurrence in itself) there would be constant squabbling, complaints about the menu, the consistency, the portion sizes, the wrong sort of ketchup.
Every mealtime was exactly the same.
There would be name-calling, kicking, flicking and biting (though never, it is worth pointing out, of the lovingly prepared food).
At 23 and 31 you would think they’d know better.
This flash fiction/short story, call it what you will, was written for Friday Fictioneers.