“Considering the fact that this reunion,” my father continued, “Is the courtesy of Haine, I think I am fit to see her as a person who doesn’t have much gravity in my family status.”

Attack him! the little voice urged. I simply stayed where I was, taking the abuse. Whatever did I do to make him hate me so?

“Do you think I wanted mom to die?” I asked, and everybody’s heads turned towards me, including father’s. “Do you think I enjoy being hated and ignored by you?”

My grip on the tablecloth tightened, and I could feel my throat closing up.
Ah, another stroll down emotional memory lane. With the added pleasure of a cemetery.
My father didn’t answer. What, was my answer unworthy? Was I speaking a dialect of Cambodian and not aware of it?
“I, for one,” I continued, trying to keep my voice level, “Am tired of watching you wave your trophy of a wife in my face.”
At this, Sherri gasped (sounded more like a cat with asthma to me), and my father’s eyes narrowed.

“And I’m tired of you blaming me.”

Enough.