There’s a moment when my drunk dad drives us home where I think, this is fine.

It happens every weekend. Usually Friday nights. Each week is long, always so long, for my parents. There hasn’t been a single day they’ve enjoyed their jobs. And since my sister and I were born, they haven’t had a single moment without a headache, either. Or so they say. Which is why, by Friday at 5:30pm, they don’t want to wait until tomorrow to relax.

“What about Samba?” My mom asks no one. She sits on the bar stool in our kitchen, scrolling her phone, and complains that the places we often frequent don’t accommodate her latest diet. My dad stands next to her with his work bag sagging from his shoulder. He won’t put it down until the plan is set, as if his job isn’t over until this decision is made. My sister, meanwhile, is practicing her spelling or long division on our scratched-up kitchen table. She hates Friday nights too, but she never remembers until the end. Maybe because she’s only eight and memories don’t fully solidify in her brain yet. My parents are like that too. I wish I had a poor memory like them.

I feel uneasy going to Samba since I work there every summer, but my mom announces that there are new low-calorie margaritas on the menu. I go to my room and change from shorts to jeans back to shorts. Pants would make it harder to carve fingernail crescents into my thighs later when I get anxious. Not that anyone will notice me by that point.

“Did I tell you Tina called me a bitch today under her breath?” my mom tells my dad. Her feet are on the dashboard. The car smells like cinnamon mixed with gasoline, and I have to swallow over and over at the bile rising in my throat.

“Isn’t that a bad word?” My sister stares out the window. Later, she’s going to ask for a sip of my mom’s drink, and my mom will give it to her and laugh at her tears when the sting hits.

“It is, which is why Tina’s the b-i-t-c-h. Not me.”

“Maybe if you...” My dad lets go a hand from the steering wheel to reach out for her. She yanks her arm away, burned, and goes off on how he doesn’t understand the complexities of her job and all the bullshit office politics.

Samba is an island-style themed restaurant. Strobe lights flash in your eyes when you walk in. I hate it, having to blink away all the colors until I can see clearly again, but no one else seems to mind.

We are seated in the middle of the restaurant, on full display for patrons and servers alike. I peruse the menu as if I don’t have it memorized. My sister takes a fuzzy green pen from my mom’s purse and draws on the paper tablecloth. I usually hate it when customers’ kids do this, but I’m happy for the distraction; she doesn’t see my mom raise two fingers to the bartender. He knows what she wants, what she says she needs to relax.

Three shots are brought over instead of two, and my mom asks if I want one. The tequila smells like the cleaning solution I’ll use later to mop the bathroom floor after her. Before I can answer, my mom laughs, says that at fourteen, she never would have turned down a drink. My dad says it’s good I already know my limits and then polishes off his first beer.

And then a second, and a third. We’ve only just finished the chips and salsa, but my parents don’t seem to care. My sister’s drawing is rather pretty, and I urge her to fill in details on the flowers when my mom knocks over my water. They’re still mostly coherent, which is good. I want to get through this meal without my manager Dave coming over and—

“Great to see you all!” He slaps my back, and my elbows lurch forward on the table. “My favorite family.”

My parents howl, which I hate. I hate that they are obnoxious. I hate that word, obnoxious. I read it once in a fanfiction, and it’s all I can think of now when they laugh. Animalistic, over the top, fake. Drunk.

I stare down at the chicken burrito Dave sets in front of me, willing him to leave, smiling and nodding through the usual questions: How’s school? You sure you can’t start earlier than summer? Can I get you guys anything else? In my mind, I beg him to leave. Can’t my parents hear their words running together, their statements trailing off into questions?

I wish my appetite would disappear, that the numbness in my head would migrate to my stomach. Then maybe I’d be skinnier, prettier. But no. I eat every bite of the burrito in silence. Neither of my parents touch their food, but they order another round of drinks. My sister’s cheese quesadilla is burnt and dry, its yellow goo stuck to her teeth and fingers and the tablecloth.

When I return from the bathroom, having puked up most of the burrito, my parents are arguing. My mom decides to revisit my dad not understanding about Tina, and my dad counters that my mom can bitch. No, she’s not a bitch, but she does bitch.

“What does that mean?” my sister whispers, and I explain that it means to complain.

“I don’t complain,” my mom sputters, hurt and angry. “I have the right to say something. You know what? Everyone is incompetent. At work, at home, at—”

“Home?” My dad grunts. I want another burrito. I need to feel my stomach sag so I can stay grounded in my chair. They keep talking, their voices ratcheting higher and louder with each fought out syllable. The music is deafening, the conversations around us a steady drone in my ears. Everyone must detect the tension at our table—like a gas leak, its sharp, curdling smell slowly filling the room—and wonder if they should intervene.

The car keys are brought onto the table, my dad’s hand clasped tight around his red and white I <3 Dad keychain. “Let’s just pay the bill and fucking go.”

The cursing offends my mom so much that she slams her chair into the table. A nearby couple gawks and stares. The breath I’m holding in my chest slides from me like a snake.

We push open the double doors and make our way outside. My mom immediately lights a cigarette. My dad barely picks up his feet, ice-skating on gravel. My sister touches my wrist. Memories of other Friday nights are finally coming back to her.

My mom stamps her cigarette into the asphalt. We step over the smoking ember and climb into the back seat without a word. My sister is humming a jingle from a TV commercial. My mom turns her back on my dad. When he grabs her shoulder, I feel her reaction down in my knees before I hear it, a shriek that has become all too familiar lately. My sister sings louder, and I hold her hand until they’re done and in the car.

My dad tears out of the parking lot and makes a hard left onto the road, rocking us to the right and inspiring another driver to lean on her horn.

“Daddy?” my sister asks, her voice trembling. He doesn’t reply. My mom rests her head on her fist and looks out the window. I feel the heave and wheeze of her chest like it’s my own, a tightness that pains me, reminds me that I’m still here, still breathing. We’re all still breathing.

My dad weaves in and out of traffic like it’s a video game. Hunching his shoulders, biting his lip, going faster and faster, hellbent on coming in first. This is our Long Island, but not the nice part where people summer, so the roads aren’t crowded.

Our neighborhood is close; I know the way with my eyes closed. We can make it home, together, as one family, and tomorrow we won’t speak of tonight. Maybe no one truly ever remembers. Maybe I’m cursed—alone, their only witness.

My dad coughs. My mom presses her face harder into the glass. This is our normal—it must be someone else’s normal too, right? If I keep repeating this mantra, the only prayer I have memorized despite years of Catholic school, then maybe I’ll believe it’s true.

The bright car lights ahead of us smear color spots across my eyes like the strobe lights at Samba, but I refuse to blink. I can’t look away, not yet. My dad just needs to make another two turns, and we will be home. And when we get there, I’ll realize I’m probably just overreacting. My parents have told me that before. Maybe this really is, honestly, all fine.