Her eyes turned red quickly. It wasn’t because of this particular rain of insults; it was probably the accumulation of months and months of verbal abuse. Every time she asks me why I treat her this way I feel like slapping her in the face like she used to do with me. When I was little, after they finished disciplining me I used to yell at them, full of rage, that someday they would pay it back to me, fantasizing that one day they would be in the direst of needs and come to me for help.

I can picture it even now, me just squashing them like rats. My family is funny that way because, you may read this and assume I had an unhappy childhood, but you would be wrong. In fact, I was a very happy kid. Most of my relatives will tell you that I was always angry or bitter, and yeah, some of that is true, but that’s because I couldn’t stand most of my relatives at that age. But I never really questioned anything. I assumed that everyone grew up like this, in the bubble of the family, where the dirty laundry is washed at home.

Anyway, back to dinner. She grabs a napkin to wipe the tears. My father stays quiet. My sister, well, I don’t think she has even realized that she is on the breaking point. But she quickly composes herself, resolute on not giving me this little victory.

Bitch.