“I’m not ignoring her. I’m just not performing for an audience that doesn’t clap,” he muttered. “Go inside.
Your mother is in the kitchen complaining about the heat.”
I walked past him, stepping over a pile of old newspapers he hadn’t bothered to throw away. I walked into the house where, on paper, I was the landlord. But today, I was still playing the role of the estranged, tolerated child.
Just wait, I thought. Just wait. Chapter 2: The “Vegetable”
The living room was cluttered.
My parents were hoarders of “nice things”—porcelain figurines, heavy curtains, unused exercise equipment draped in laundry. My sister, Karen, walked out of the kitchen. She was five years older than me and had mastered the art of looking down her nose at everyone, despite being unemployed and living off her alimony checks.
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