Another day, another massive fight. Why couldn’t my mother just listen to me? I supposed it was easier to call me an emotional, bratty teenager than listen to what was on my mind. After another day of camp, my sister, Mother, and I went from hellos to an escalating fight about nothing in particular. Maybe today was about how Ali hated her teacher, although she chose him, or how Mom hated driving the hour up to the writing camp, although it was only for four days. Maybe it was me complaining about the early mornings (six AM) to the late nights (9 PM), although I had voluntarily signed up for the camp. Whatever it was, it always ended in high-pitched screams, teary voices, livid grunts, and a tear in our family dynamic. I listened to Ali try to take a deep breath as a couple tears spilled down her cheeks, or my Mother begin talking with her soothing voice which would quickly change to a quick-paced bitter tone as she realized how furious she actually was at Ali and I. But finally, the fight was over. We were almost home; we had yelled to our heart’s content, cried a little, fell in silence and then exploded with rage all within forty-five minutes. Now we sat anxiously, heavily breathing, stained tears on our red faces and a tense atmosphere laying heavily over us like a looming gray rain cloud. There were no more attempts from any of us to smooth out the wrinkles in the blanket of our emotions or to try to make up before we arrived home. We simply waited. Waited to get home, to go to bed, to get up, to drive to camp, to have another fight…wait for what? We would see. After another day of camp, that is.