It's funny. We're such a broken family. I hide in my room with a stash of food. My father hides downstairs, rearranging his work room and occasionally surfacing to make nice. And my mother lounges in the living room with the TV, acting her part as the offended queen.
And I'm blamed for it all. For us being broken.
We got here together.
And they don't see it.
Or perhaps they do, and it's just easier to use a scapegoat and live in denial.
Neither one is very impressive.
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