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The Plate Fight That (Somehow) Brought Us Closer
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Let me set the scene for you: a normal evening, nothing out of the ordinary. Until, without warning, my dad casually drops a bombshell on me. “Wash your 10-year-old brother’s plate.” A plate. A crusty, leftover plate that had zero connection to me. It wasn’t even mine! I wasn’t the one who ate off it, and I certainly wasn’t the one who should’ve been stuck cleaning it. But before I could even process how absurd it was, I felt this tight knot of frustration in my chest. I looked at him, and he looked at me, and in that moment, everything changed.
“Wash his plate,” he repeated, this time with more force.
“No,” I shot back, with the sass and defiance only a 13-year-old can pull off. Seriously, I was 13. It was like the universe had gifted me a golden ticket to rebellion. I was on the edge of the “I’m too cool for chores” phase, and I wasn’t about to get caught up in some sexist, archaic family tradition where girls clean up after everyone. Not on my watch.
Cue the fireworks. My dad’s face transformed into something straight out of a cartoon — a hyperbolic explosion of rage. His eyes bulged, veins popped out of his forehead, and his arms flailed about like he was auditioning for the lead role in a harry…
