The neighbors came flooding out to watch the spectacle. I'd turned the house into a full-blown circus.
The infuriating part? I was already eighteen. The officers told us to work it out among ourselves.
If we could've worked it out among ourselves, why would I have called the police in the first place?
All they ever did was smooth things over and send everyone home.
I'd always assumed the worst about people. They never disappointed me.
This time, though, the situation had truly exploded.
Both sets of grandparents descended on our house, along with every aunt, uncle, and distant relative who could find an excuse to show up.
My mother sat there covering her face, crying about how I was out of control, how I had no sense. Grandma Abbott hovered beside her, patting her shoulder.
Then Grandma turned and fixed me with a disapproving glare.
"This is the woman who gave birth to you. Who raised you. What kind of person turns around and spits on their own mother?"
She was pinning the label on me. Ungrateful. The girl who bit the hand that fed her.
Funny thing was, being ungrateful felt a hell of a lot better than being obedient.