My mother closed the trade union.

Enough of it! I want a day when no one tells me what to do. I am on strike! I won’t wash my hands or brush my teeth if I don’t want to.
A six-year-old boy stumbled his leg and sat in Turkish in front of the refrigerator, staring down into the floor.
And for long? My mother clarified pragmatically.
- Until the strike is over - explained the proletarian - a couple of weeks!
My mother, a representative of the oppressor class, calculated the options. Most of them didn’t like her.
Okay, then I too, she said.
What too? The proletariat was surprised.
“At the strike,” said my mother, “I don’t cook, I don’t wash, I don’t clean. And I’ll tell Dad, he’ll strike too!
You can not! The proletarian appealed, I want to eat.
I can.
and Aaaah! I’m going to go one day! and all!
The Silence
Half of the day!
The Silence
My strike is over! I went to brush my teeth! You don’t battle either, okay? and?

So our mother closed the trade union in a separate house.