Chapter 5 - Breaking Point
"Stop glaring at people," my mother hissed, leaning down close to my ear so the guests nearby wouldn't hear. "You're sitting there like a dark cloud over the whole celebration. Go upstairs to your room right now. You're ruining the mood."
"I'm just resting, Mom," I said quietly. "Let me finish my water."
"I said go upstairs!" she snapped, raising her voice enough that a few heads turned toward us.
Across the room, my father noticed the commotion and strode over, his face flushed with alcohol and irritation. "What's going on here?" he demanded, glaring down at me as if I were a misbehaving child.
"She refuses to go to her room," my mother complained, playing the victim instantly. "She wants to sit here and stare daggers at everyone like we're her enemies."
"Christina," my father said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low growl. "I've had enough of your attitude. We took you in, we fed you, we paid for your shelter, and you act like a spoiled, ungrateful brat. Hand over your phone right now. You've been texting people behind our backs."
"No," I said, looking him straight in the eyes. "Give me back my credit cards, my laptop, and my forty-five thousand dollars. Right now, in front of everyone."
The living room went dead silent. The music playing from the stereo speakers seemed to fade away. Heads turned from the patio, the kitchen, and the hallway. Fifty pairs of eyes locked onto our corner.
Austin and Teresa stopped showing off the tennis bracelet. The children paused their running games, sensing the sudden drop in temperature.
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My father’s face turned a deep, furious shade of crimson. "You ungrateful little bitch," he roared, his voice echoing off the drywall. "You think you can embarrass me in front of my friends? In my own home?"
Before I could blink, he lunged forward, grabbed the upper shaft of my left aluminum crutch, and yanked it violently out from under my arm.
