The rose gold glow of the setting sun reflected off the rim of my light blue glasses, casting a slight blinding brilliance into my view. We stood in the doorway leading out onto the front porch, one standing inside, the other four of us gathered in a semi-circle around the first, outside, back to the pink sky.

I stood passively, waiting while the spittle flew from my mother’s mouth, each word punctuated with scorn, slapping me across the face like a blow. “Completely irresponsible!” she yelled. I met my sister’s eyes, watching as the pale red light across her face complemented the wilting roses to either side of us. Winter was coming at last to northeast Texas.

My gaze drifted away, watching the neighbors as the father came home from work. The two parents embraced lightly in the yard while the kids, one as tall as his father, gathered around and laughed in a voice that could be heard from this far away. I watched curiously, but my gaze was jerked away by the adamant, “She’s not listening!”

“Ashlyn, look at your mother!”

My eyes met her angry and accusing ones, and I quickly made my face relax, converting it back into its earlier placid reaction. I had learned from hard experience that this was the best way to end a conversation quickly. The cool wind blew against the sides of my exposed legs, and I shivered slightly, thrusting my hands into my pockets to hide the clenched fists.

She told me I was worthless and huddled in that semicircle that cowed to her wishes, I believed her. When she shifted her attentions to Dad, I glanced back at the neighbor’s house. They had already gone inside. Now, the glory of the sunset was fading, drifting into night, and I grew conscious of Dad’s desire to get away.

Automatically, I began to mouth keystone phrases, assuring her that I understood her points. I would do it better next time, I promised.

And as the sun set around me, and I tiptoed towards the waiting truck, she called me back one last time.

“A ninety five is a good score,” she said, almost pleading, and I steeled my face to not reflect the anger I felt inside.

“It can always be better,” I said, the red glow of the truck’s taillights reflecting in my right glasses lens.

“Can it?” she asked.

I shrugged, but my fists clenched tighter against the side of my pockets. This is how you trained me, I thought. There is no turning back now.