In an instant, Mom flipped the dining table, sending plates and bowls crashing to the floor. The broken pieces of porcelain and food hurt my eyes.
Dad rushed to stop her. "Oh, honey, what’s wrong with you?"
"Okay, okay, I was wrong, I was wrong. Don’t be mad. I won’t do it again."
Dad’s surrender finally eased her anger a little. However, that anger didn’t fade; it just turned toward me.
Mom turned and looked at me, slapping me hard across the face. "You little bitch! You come home and start flirting with your dad already? Trying to take him from me?"
"I should’ve never given birth to you! You’re nothing but bad luck! I can’t stand the sight of you!"
Mom looked straight at me and it felt like she wanted to tear me apart. It was the same all over again.
Whenever Dad showed me even the smallest bit of care, Mom would lash out with anger and accusations.
During my first final exams in first grade, I scored 100 on both tests.
Excited, I ran home with both papers, holding mine with a perfect high score above my head.
That day, Dad was so happy he even made my favorite cola chicken wings for dinner.