I guess I didn't hear my brother call me from upstairs. It was time for dinner. After a few moments, my dad stormed downstairs and said to me, "Here, recluse. Eat shit and cry at the moon." Or maybe it was "bark at the moon." It doesn't matter to me now. He tossed my plate of food onto a chair. I stared blankly at the plate, a lone piece of homemade pizza. I wept quietly, not for the pizza. But for everything. For my dad's anger. My mother's reserve. My loneliness at home. The fact that my 18-year-old cousin Rita said "Ew" after seeing two men kiss on MTV.

At times like these, I imagine cutting ties from my family. Cutting them off like a failed, unnecessary appendage. Spent. Purposeless. I'd move to another country. Another continent. England, perhaps. Or Australia. I fancy the idea of moving to Australia. So far from here. So remote. I'd find a job and a husband, and I'd be happy. I would never speak to my family again. My past would finally be behind me.