Somedays, I wonder if I should have stuck around for the last act instead of taking off like I did. Would things be “that” different or would I still find myself wondering this same thing some many years down the road? I remembered that last night at the dinner table. Mother and I looking down at our plates as Big Mike said grace. I prayed for freedom while we shared the discomfort of heavy silence like we did the mashed potatoes. And in my head I chanted for freedom until my head throbbed and big tears poured down my face. Mike spoke first, bursting through the remote stillness with his boisterous words, “I think,” he said pausing shortly for dramatic effect. Suddenly,the tea kettle bellowed in the background, a siren exclaiming an unknown danger. Mother jumped, suddenly remembering she’d turned it on before dinner, bumping the table and knocking over my plate in the chaos. Big Mike immediately started in on her before the plate hit the ground, crashing. The noise ruminated in my ears like yodeling in the alps and I knew it was my last night in that house as I watched Big Mike hover above mother, screaming as she crouched down to collect the pieces of my last meal.