Later that evening, you head home, steering your battered car down the narrow side street where you've lived for as long as you can remember. Small square houses crowd close together, their wooden siding weathered dark gray by the ocean air. On your house, the paint on the doors and shutters is grayish now, too, although it started out white. Your parents have been talking for years about repainting and repairing, but there's never been enough money for that.
There's never been enough money for much of anything.
All your life, it's been just you and your parents in this little house.
What's your relationship with your parents like?