3

I snapped myself back into reality. Those memories were too terrible to remember.

Hatred. That’s a pretty strong word to use on anyone. Now try to imaging feeling that towards the person who carried you for nine months and then went thought nineteen hours of labor. That’s all I could feel for her for many years.

"What are you doing home so late young lady?"

"I’m eighteen years old, and it’s none of your business."

"None of my business?"

"Yeah, that’s right."

"Of course it’s my business to know why my daughter has come home at 4:00 a.m. on a school night. Where were you?"

"I told you it’s none of your business."

"Are you going to tell me where you were or do I have to threaten you?"

"Go ahead. Threaten me all you like. You’re not going to get a straight answer out of me."

"Oh, it that so?"

"Yeah."

"Fine. I’ll take away your car and license privileges."

"You can’t do that!"

"Oh yes I can. I own more that half of that car, and I paid for your license. So all I have to do is make one little phone call downtown. Now are you going to tell me or not?"

"Not!"

"Fine. Give me your car keys and license."

"Here. Take them."

I turned and began to walk to my room scornfully.

"I hate you," I mumbled.

"What did you say?"

I turned back around to face her, and louder and more sternly I said,

"I hate you. I wish you died in that car crash and not dad. At least the parent I could actually get along with would be alive today."