Honestly, I’ve gotten used to it by now.  Dad’s screaming has become familiar to me.  We’ve been through it thousands of times, and it never changes.

            “You can’t do anything right, can you?  After work, I expect the house to be clean and dinner made.  It’s the least I can ask of you!” He continues, “Your mother understood that.  I don’t know what she saw in you.”

            Theresa, a couple years younger than me, but carrying herself as if she’s older, stands in the hallway watching.  She glares at me, the disdain evident in her piercing glare.  I restrain myself from rolling my eyes.  If only I was more like Theresa, I think, holding back a half hearted laugh.  Theresa, who looks and acts just like Mom.  Theresa, who would never disappoint Dad.  Theresa, who never has to do chores because her “schedule is already so packed.” Theresa, who wasn’t in the car when it happened.

Dad thinks that bringing up Mom will suddenly change me.  Like, if he mentions her enough, the switch in my brain will finally flip.  Honestly, I think he just takes pleasure in launching insults at me.  It’s been two years since the crash, but it’s still fresh in all of our minds, especially mine.

            We were driving on the highway, Mom in the passenger seat and me at the wheel.  We were laughing, listening to music on the radio.  Sunlight beamed through the windows, bathing her in this almost angelic glow.  How ironic is that?  I turned my head, only for a second, to look at her beautiful smile.  Her smile had a way of making me feel like the most perfect person in the world.

            She beamed and said, “Michelle, you’re doing a great job! I’m really proud of you.”  I smiled back at her.

            I saw the truck too late.  Before I could scream, it collided with Mom’s side of the car.  I don’t remember much, just the crunch of metal, glass shattering, burnt rubber, and the shrill screech of the breaks.  Everything else at that point is a blur.  I’m not sure if that’s because of the head trauma or the tears in my eyes that muddle my thoughts.

            I’m brought back to the present.  I’m suddenly very aware of how hard my chair is.  The fluorescent kitchen light is harsh and the pounding in my head worsens.

            I’m consumed by anger.  I’m angry that I played a role in Mom’s death.  I’m angry that Dad has been yelling at me nonstop for half an hour.  I’m angry that Theresa, who used to be one of my favorite people in the world, couldn’t care less about me anymore.  I killed our mom, I think to myself.  She has every right to hate me, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.  I don’t want to keep living like this.

            “Why don’t we just stop dancing around it?” I hear my voice say.  Dad looks shocked at my unwavering tone.  That’s new, I think, feeling a rush of courage.  “I know you blame me for Mom’s death.  I blame myself too, but I don’t deserve this endless abuse from you.  I’m your daughter, just like Theresa, but you don’t treat me like it.  We never hang out like we used to, and the only time we interact is when you’re berating me for something completely ridiculous.  I’ve had enough.  I’m not gonna take this anymore!”

            The shock on Dad’s face slowly fades away, and is replaced with a cold, steely gaze.  He looks like the personification of hatred, and my courage flickers a bit.  Fear takes the reins again.

            “If you don’t like it here, then leave.  We don’t want you here anymore.  You stopped being a member of this family the moment your carelessness cost your mother her life,” he says in a severe tone.

            Silence fills the room.  I look back and forth between Dad and Theresa, half-hoping Theresa will jump to my defense.  Maybe she would say, “Come on, Dad.  You’re being too hard on her, “ or, “You don’t speak for me!”  This would be the perfect moment for her nurturing, sisterly side to make a comeback.  Please, I think.  Please say something.

I receive nothing.  The air feels heavy with finality, and I slowly make my way to my room.  I fill my backpack with clothes and other necessities.  I numbly drag my feet to the door, and turn around to take one last look at what used to be my home.

I see the kitchen where Mom and I used to bake Christmas cookies.  I notice the place on the wall where she marked our heights.  I look at the orchid she loved, dead now that she’s not here to take care of it.  Finally, I look at Theresa and Dad.  Theresa refuses to look at me, paying attention to her phone instead.  Dad stands still in the living room with his back towards me, quiet.  I’ve been effectively shunned.

Even though I feel nothing, there are tears streaming down my face.  Why am I crying?  There’s nothing left for me here, I think.  It takes everything I have in me to turn my back on them.

I touch the cool metal, turn the knob, take a deep breath of chilly autumn air, and walk out the door.