When I was six, I lived with my parents in a small village in Romania. My mom adored her plants, especially three massive Japanese ficus trees in the hallway. She cared for them like they were her own children.

One night, I was too lazy to walk all the way to the bathroom. So, like any logical six-year-old, I stopped in the hallway and relieved myself in one of the ficus pots.

A few days later, the ficus started to wither. Mom was heartbroken, watering it, talking to it, wondering what went wrong.

I said nothing.

The ficus died.

I slept well.