I'm cooking hamburgers at my mother's house. I come in with 4 little ones. She sneers and says that there should be more. I feel hurt and angry and then I go out. I look and there are lots more but they've fallen on the floor, the messy greasy floor. I'm crying as I pick them up because I know if she sees, I'm in trouble. I have a hard time picking them up. Finally I get them into the house, and she comes up to me and growls, "Hurry up. They're in there, hungry, tired and fighting," (My father and the rest of the family). I say, "I have to cook the potatoes first," and she says, "No! Do something about the hamburgers first. Feed them the hamburgers and then come cook the potatoes." She walks out. I'm crying and angry and I get stubborn. I look for the potato peeler in the sink of dirty dish water. All I keep coming up with are sharp knives. I'm careful with them. I peel the potatoes and get them into a pan and take them to the stove, move another pot off the burner to make room for the potatoes and see that a cooked steak is there. There are lots of them, 3. She comes back in. I say, "Look! You had a good dinner already cooked and you had me out there working and crying and you weren't even going to let me have a good dinner." She yells at me about finding some other place to live. I say, "Yes, sure, I'll get out." She storms out. My father says to me (he's standing behind me), "7-6-5-4 yeah, you could be packed and out by 5." I know he means a.m. and I don't get up early, and I get furious at him and I turn and yell, "You little short runt!" Dwight is standing nearby. My father is about 4 feet tall. I yell, "You always take her side!" I am angry and hurt.