“Stop, Christos!” I pleaded.

“I can’t stand this piece of shit!” He snatched the broken painting off the floor, barged past me and stomped through the house to the front door, which he ripped open. I was surprised he didn’t yank the door off the hinges, he pulled so hard.

With a growl, he threw the floppy remains of the ruined painting out into the entryway. He shouted a primal roar and chased after it, kicking at the heaped ruin of the broken canvas.

I jogged up behind him, “Christos, stop! This is insane.”

“No, it’s a PIECE OF FUCKING SHIT!!!” He clutched one corner of the remains of the painting in both hands and beat it against the driveway like a rug. With each swing, he shouted, “PIECE! OF! FUCKING! SHIT!!!”

I backed off. He was in a rage, There was no point in trying to stop him. I couldn’t even if I’d wanted to. Christos was ten times bigger and stronger than me.

Christos continued beating his painting to death. I noticed Spiridon and Isabella standing behind me. Spiridon had a pained, sad look on his face. Isabella’s eyes were popping out of their sockets.

A car I didn’t recognize turned down the driveway and drove toward us while Christos pulverized the last shreds of the painting.

Christos was yelling, totally oblivious.

The glare from the sky overhead made it impossible to see who was in the car.

Christos bundled up the wad of torn canvas and the shattered wooden frame. He threw everything over the roof of the garage with a final primal roar. “PIECE OF FUCKING SHIIIIIIT!!!”

The car doors of the random sedan opened and two occupants stepped out.

“Sam?” my mom asked nervously, “is everything okay?”

Oh, fuck, no fucking way.

“Are you all right, Sam?” my dad asked.

Christos stormed back into the house, shouting “GOD DAMN USELESS MOTHER FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT PAINTING!!!”

I stared at my parents.

My fucking parents.

How the hell did they find me in San Diego?

Maybe I should’ve checked that voicemail they’d left weeks ago.

SAMANTHA

Spiridon walked into the living room from the kitchen and handed a glass of fresh squeezed lemonade to my mom. She sat next to my dad on the couch in the Manos’ living room. I sat on the leather chair opposite them.

“Thank you, uh…Spiridon?” my mom said, taking the glass from him. She hadn’t gotten used to his name. I could imagine her thinking it sounded hippie dippie. Whatever.

“This is good lemonade,” my dad said after taking another swallow.

“Thank you,” Spiridon smiled. “There’s plenty more. A warm day like today is perfect for it.”

I never imagined my parents inside this house. Ever. It felt wrong, like my privacy was being invaded in the worst way possible, like my hope for a new life was being undermined by their presence. I wished they would go. Like, now. I beamed ESP suggestions to my mom:

you left the stove on

Dad left the back door unlocked

your pipes will freeze and burst because you didn’t leave the faucets on a slow drip

GO THE FUCK HOME!!!

Nothing worked. Oh well. Maybe I should just tell them to leave? I could say, “Mom, Dad, you guys are such big jerks, I was thinking you could turn around and fly back to D.C., okay? It’s only a six hour flight.” Yeah, maybe not. I sighed to myself, fresh out of ideas.

“How are you two enjoying the warm weather?” Spiridon asked. “I bet it’s not this warm in Washington D.C.”

My mom smiled her office ass kissing smile, “I was just telling Bill on the drive over that the weather is so nice, maybe we should move here.”

My eyes bulged out of my head. No, please no. I buried my chin in my chest, hoping to hide my expression.

Dad said, “It was a smart move for you to choose San Diego, Sam.”

I nodded in mundane horror as my lips peeled back over my clenched teeth.

My mom chuckled fakely, “You never told us San Diego was so nice, Sam.”

Maybe because you never asked? Duh. All my parents cared about was whether or not I was taking all my Accounting classes in the right order and getting A’s. The weather? Irrelevant. My desire to become an artist? Irrelevant. My wonderful boyfriend? Irrelevant. My parents were in total denial.

“If you had,” my mom grinned, “we would’ve come to visit sooner,” she chuckled.

Yeah, because me and my mom were totally besties. Was she insane? I was waiting for Rod Serling to walk out from behind a piece of furniture and welcome us all to the Twilight Zone.

I searched around the armrests of my chair for one of those James Bond control panels. I was hoping there were ejector seats beneath my parents so I could shoot them through the ceiling. Or maybe trapdoors that dropped down to a dungeon filled with ravenous grizzly bears or a shark tank. I hadn’t yet found that control panel, but the leather chair had rivets on the front of the armrest, so I began meticulously pressing every single one. I was sure one of them was the trapdoor button.

“Sam, what are you doing?” my mom scoffed.

“Nothing,” I said defensively as I folded my hands in my lap. Sadly, I don’t think any of the rivets were switches.

Mom turned to Spiridon and chuckled, “Sam always was fidgety.”

Dad joined in with the good times. “I remember when Sam was a baby, she always wanted to play with my old adding machine. Once I showed her how to make the paper tape spool out by adding numbers together, she couldn’t get enough of it. She’d play with that adding machine until she’d used up the entire roll of tape. It was then that I realized my daughter’s love for numbers. Just like her father.”

I rolled my eyes. Was he serious? My dad was so oblivious. I don’t think he realized that adding machine had been far more responsive to me than he ever had. I was now convinced the stork had dropped my baby basket off at the wrong house nineteen years ago. Maybe my real parents were wizards like Harry Potter’s mum and dad. I rubbed my scalp, hoping to find a lightning bolt scar hidden there. Nope.

“Are you okay, Sam?” Mom frown-smiled. “Have you been using your dandruff shampoo?”

“I’m fine, Mom,” I groaned. Where was my magic wand? Oh yeah, Christos had taken it with him when he went for a walk earlier. Yes, the wand in his pants. I repressed a secret smile.

“What’s so funny?” Dad asked.

I needed to take some spy classes so I could learn to make my secret smiles more secret. “Nothing,” I groaned.

“Where did Christos go?” my mom asked.

“I think he went for a walk,” Spiridon said. “He’ll be back sooner or later.”

Christos had stormed past my parents after they’d arrived without saying hello, and gone out the driveway to who knew where. I couldn’t blame him. I wasn’t happy to see my parents either. It was for the best. My parents had been in shock for at least a half an hour after watching Christos murder his painting.

Wanting to change the subject away from Christos and his outrage, I said, “So, how’d you guys find the house?” I’d never told them the Manos’ address.

“That was easy,” my dad said. “We called the manager at your apartment and asked him for your forwarding address. Since we’re your parents, and we co-signed your lease, he was happy to oblige.”

Great. Thanks, Mr. Manager. What a great guy he was. Traitor.

“You’re not staying at Samoula’s apartment, are you?” Spiridon asked.

“Who?” my dad frowned.

“I’m sorry,” Spiridon smiled. “Samoula is a nickname I use for your daughter. It’s a common thing in Greek families to nickname everyone.”

Mom grimaced. I don’t think she liked the idea that I had a nickname, like Spiridon was taking some sort of parental ownership of me. “We call her Sam,” she insisted.

Spiridon nodded, “That’s wonderful.”