It was supposed to be a normal Sunday. The kind of day where the family gathers around the table for a late breakfast, shares a few laughs, and maybe watches a movie together. But from the moment I woke up, I could feel the tension in the air, thick and unspoken, like a storm waiting to break.

The morning started with silence. My parents were sitting at the kitchen table, their coffee cups untouched, their faces tight with unspoken words. My younger brother, Jake, was scrolling through his phone, pretending not to notice. I tried to lighten the mood, cracking a joke about the burnt toast in the toaster, but it fell flat. Mom didn’t even look up.

By mid-morning, the storm hit. It started with something small—a comment about Dad forgetting to take out the trash. But then Mom’s voice rose, sharp and accusing, and Dad fired back, his tone defensive. Jake and I exchanged uneasy glances, but there was no escaping it. The argument spiraled, old grievances resurfacing like ghosts from the past. Money, work, the house, the kids—everything was fair game.

I tried to intervene, to calm them down, but my voice was drowned out by theirs. Jake slammed his fist on the table and stormed out, muttering something about how he couldn’t take it anymore. T

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