They must think that we are mad. With the yelling at all hours, and the breaking of things. With the cars in the driveway, and the people that come and go.
The screaming match in the front yard last week, even I don’t know what the fight was about. The cops probably flip a coin to avoid coming to our house. Our dog barks at anything, and my mom sits on the front steps anxiously awaiting someone to walk by, her voice hoarse from talking to herself, the words just pouring out.
My brother has some seedy business going, anger in his eyes when I look at him as if I want to talk to him. My father never home and my grandmother trying to quietly live her life on her own.
I hate what I think of my home, so I wonder what the neighbors must think.