I’m long used to mornings with my parents screeching at the top of their lungs. It’s basically tradition at this point. Their nitpicking is relentless, especially when it comes to school. It’s been this way for years and it’s only gotten worse in the last few months.

Ever since I announced I was planning to double major in business and film at the University of Southern California, I’ve been subjected to nonstop lectures about making terrible life decisions. Why pursue the arts when I could be a doctor, an engineer, a rocket scientist? Clearly I’ve lost my mind.

I almost feel bad for Anam, who has to hear them by proxy, but I’ve had to sit through our parents scolding her enough times that it evens out. Most recently, because of the debacle of the bleaching her hair at home without any supervision.

Anam comes out of her room wearing a tank top and leggings. “Ready?”

I smile despite myself. “You look cute,” I say. “But you’re going to freeze to death. Late January is still January.”

She shrugs, the strap of her top sliding down her shoulder. I lean forward, tugging it back up. “Thanks, Apu,” she says before hip-checking me. “Let’s grab breakfast from the deli?”

“Sounds good.” Sitting at the dining table long enough to scarf down a roti and egg isn’t feasible with the mood my parents are in. With that in mind, I toss a wool sweater at her. “Take this. You can take it off when we’re at school if you really want to.”

Anam grumbles half-heartedly, pouting as she tugs it over her head. “Happy?”

“Don’t give me that look,” I say, flicking her forehead. “I’ll pay for your bagel.”

Her face immediately brightens. “Okay.”

I hasten down the stairs, even as my father says, “Poppy! Come here!”

I stay silent, maneuvering around my mother’s extensive vase collection littering the foyer. The wall is covered in family photos, and with every step I take, it’s almost like I can see the progression of me shifting from loving my parents to tolerating them.

Then again, it’s not exactly one-sided.

At four years old, I offer the camera a toothy smile. At eight years, my mother’s hand grips my shoulder tightly, wrinkling my shirt. At twelve years old, my eyes are bright, but my jaw is clenched. At sixteen years old, Anam and I stand stiffly to one side, our expressions blank, as our parents try not to glare at us.

And on and on it goes.

Some days, it feels like Ma’s love for home decor outweighs whatever affection she holds for her daughters. Those days, I consider smashing each and every single piece of furniture in this house, then striking a match, letting it all go up in flames. The rest of the time, I’m just tired.