Bethany: You almost ready for school?
Brooke: (calmly) Yeah, I’m leaving out.
Bethany: Hm. Make sure you clean that table before you go. I don’t want your mess left behind again.
Brooke: (sighs) I didn’t even eat yet.
(Bethany smirks, walking over to the table. She notices Brooke’s plate sitting there.)
Bethany: Oh, this food? You mean this?
(She picks it up and tosses it into the trash.)
Brooke: (shocked) Why did you do that?! That was mine!
Bethany: Because I said no eating at the table before school. You never listen, Brooke.
Brooke: You just made that rule up!
Bethany: (mocking tone) Oh, really? Maybe if you had some manners, I wouldn’t have to.
(Brooke clenches her fists, her patience finally snapping.)
Brooke: You know what, Bethany? You’ve been picking on me since day one. Every morning it’s something new — the table, the dishes, my room, my clothes — you just need something to fight about!
Bethany: (sarcastic smile) Maybe if you acted like a daughter, I’d treat you like one.
Brooke: I am not your daughter. You’re not my mother — you’re just the woman who moved into our house and started pretending to be one.
(Bethany’s face hardens instantly.)
Bethany: Watch your mouth, little girl.
Brooke: No, you watch yours. You don’t like me, that’s fine. But stop pretending it’s about “rules” or “respect.” You just want control, and you can’t stand that I don’t fear you.
(For the first time, Bethany is speechless. Her eyes flare with anger, but Brooke keeps going.)
Brooke: You throw away my food, you talk bad about me to Dad, and you still expect me to smile like nothing’s wrong. I’m done being quiet.
Bethany: (raising her voice) You live under my roof! You will respect me whether you like it or not!
Brooke: (firmly) It’s not your roof, it’s Dad’s. And I’m starting to think he’s just as tired of you as I am.
(Right then, Larra walks in — tired, unshaven, clearly fed up.)
Larra: What now? Every single day I hear shouting before I even drink my coffee.
Bethany: (pointing at Brooke) She’s talking to me like I’m her enemy!
Brooke: Because you treat me like one!
Larra: Enough! Both of you!
(He sets his keys on the counter, rubbing his temples.)
Larra: Bethany, every morning you find something to start with her. And Brooke — I’m sick of the yelling, too. This house feels like a battlefield.
Bethany: So it’s all my fault now?
Larra: (exhausted) I don’t even care whose fault it is anymore. I come home from work to arguments. I wake up to arguments. I can’t live like this.
(Bethany folds her arms, angry but quiet. Brooke looks away, holding back tears.)
Larra: (softly) Brooke’s a kid. You’re supposed to guide her, not destroy her peace every morning.
Bethany: (bitterly) Maybe if you disciplined her, I wouldn’t have to.
Larra: Or maybe if you treated her with kindness, she wouldn’t push back.
(Silence fills the room. Brooke finally speaks up, her voice low but steady.)
Brooke: I never asked for you to be my mother. But I did wish, just once, you’d act like one.
(Bethany looks at her — angry, hurt, but with a flicker of guilt she won’t admit.)
Larra: (grabbing his jacket) I’m done talking. If this keeps up, one of you will have to leave.
(He walks out, slamming the door. Brooke wipes her tears and heads toward the door too.)
Brooke: (to Bethany) You can keep the house, Bethany. But you’ll never have peace here — not until you learn how to give it.
(She leaves quietly. Bethany stands alone in the kitchen, staring at the empty plate she threw away. For the first time, her face shows something other than anger — maybe regret, maybe realization, or maybe just loneliness.)
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