They left through the back door.

My mother gave me a single wooden chopstick. She told me to snap it; and I did. She then gave me three the next time around. She told me to snap all three at once. I couldn't.

She then tells me a story of how this was a old adage. An adage a parent would use for their children. The first stick represented myself, and it was fragile. The later two sticks were my brothers, and the bond made it impossible to break. It was her point, that we shouldn't be on our own.

I returned with a thought. "What if the first chopstick you gave me was ivory instead of wood, then it would be ok." She smiled. I knew her intentions, but its pointless.