“You’re overreacting.”
My sister smirked.
It was such a small expression, but I remember it because of what it said without words: they expected the family pattern to hold.
They expected me to get angry, get talked over, get accused of being dramatic, and eventually give up because everyone else had agreed that I was the difficult one.
They were prepared for shouting.
They were prepared for guilt.
They were prepared for me to defend myself.
They were not prepared for me to stop caring whether they approved.
I stared at my mother’s fingers around my phone and then looked back at my son.
His breathing was coming in thin, uneven catches, and that sound made every argument around me seem suddenly useless.
“Give me my phone.”
My mother pulled it closer against herself.
“You need to calm down first.”
