My legs immediately stop when I get 50 yards away from my front door. I can hear them from out here; hooting and hollering about something.

Great, something happened.

Debating my next move, to my left I see the smoke. From the back seat of my father's Dodge 4-door truck, I see smoke slowly escaping out the back tinted window. The window was rolled down only about an inch. This must be BIG news if my father's smoking in the back seat of his truck - in the rain no less. This hiding spot was our secret. I glance at the sky and let the rain, which is now coming down hard, hit my face.

I love the rain.

I slowly walk to the slightly opened window.

"What's all this about Pops?" I keep my body posture facing my house and not the truck, making it seem I'm casually standing in the rain near the vehicles.

"Get in the house Coyote. You're soaking wet."

I noticed immediately he didn't answer my question.

"Pop, what happened?" The concern for my father had me face the tinted window. He wasn't supposed to be smoking. Since his accident, his blood pressure readings have been scary high. I may be his favorite daughter, but I've warned him that he can only smoke three cigarettes a week, and we've came to the agreement that this number would decrease every 2 months.

"Some big shot is trying to buy the entire neighborhood."

"WHAT?" I try to whisperly shout, failing miserably and my father shushes me.

When my father says neighborhood, we are talking about miles and miles and miles of empty desert land – Beautiful desert that has kept its beautiful natural state. Our closest neighbors, the Lucas family, were 8 miles away from us.

More puffs of smoke escape out the window and my father continues, "I met him. He's cool."

Not wanting my father to see how upset I was, I turn away from him and focus on the front door of our house again.

"Papa. You're not selling are you? This is our home."

"I don't want to Coyote - but maybe this is for the best. You and Jean had to move out here and re-root your lives because of me. I can sell my portion of the Construction Company to Collin Junior. Maybe your mom and I can move in to one of those retirement communities. Maybe I can find myself an old rich white woman to take care of me…a good looking one." Even though his joke was funny he wasn't laughing. "You all moved back here to help out and I feel so ashamed."

"Papa, don't say that." I clear the lump in my throat – even though he snuck in that joke, this entire situation has upset him. This had to be difficult for my father. Our house my father built was enormous. He made each of us rooms – he made himself a study—he made my mother her entertaining room (away from his study, of course) and a huge family room—and bonus we were also spoiled with 7 bathrooms. The house was a single story mansion – built by my father and a few men from his construction company (a Company he built from the ground up with his long-time friend Collin Colimas Senior).

Our home was an adobe-style home that looked perfect out here in the desert—and the thought of my father selling it, breaks my heart into little pieces.

"We moved here because we love you Papa, not because of obligation. We moved back because mother needed help and you still can't work full-time. If the same happened to us, would you want us to feel bad?"

My father never had it easy. He started working at age 5 in Mexico City selling gum and newspapers at stoplights. He had 3 jobs by age 10. He used all his money to help support his younger brother and sister. Nothing came easy for my father and being in his current disabled state is crushing his spirit.

My father doesn't like talking about the accident. I'll always remember May 4th as the day I almost died of heartbreak. A completely drunk stranger changed our lives forever. My father was driving mother's Honda Civic, which he rarely did, but let's be honest my mother can't do anything herself. He gets the oil change, tire rotations, etc., (my mother has never seen the inside of a working garage). The drunk driver ran a red-light T-boning my father's side pinning him in and totaling the car. My father was in the hospital for 8 months – 3 of those months in a coma. When he was discharged we still had an additional 6 months going back and forth to have minor surgeries and for appointments. I've never been so scared in my life. As for my mother, she had a nervous breakdown staying at home crying and wailing. Because of this "breakdown", Jean and I handled everything that my mother did not. At the time, I was active in the Marines and living in Yuma on base and Jean was living in Flagstaff. Without question, we both moved back home to make sure everything was done properly as my mother wasn't paying any of the bills - personal or business, was not visiting my father in the hospital, and was not handling his construction business. She wasn't doing anything but cry and sleep. So before they lost the company and their sole income, I had to step in and take care of my father's business – making sure all the construction projects were completed and new ones started. What hit us the hardest was the court subpoena from Collin Colimas Senior, who attempted to legally take the business away from my father. It was a grueling 4 months of court appeals and attorney back-and-forth nonsense all while my father was in and out of the hospital. Luckily, my father is a shrewd businessman and created the company with Mr. Colimas in such a way that it could not be taken away from us unless Mr. Colimas bought my father's share outright. Unfortunately, running the company fell upon me as I was the only Benito that sort-of knew how to run a construction business. I currently work Construction early in the morning on Mondays and Thursdays and all day on the weekends. Luckily, I work second shift for my full-time job as a government contractor on Base so even though I'm tired I still work my butt off without question.

Marines are machines - Hooorah!

Even with providing for my family and basically taking care of my mother, I seem to still be the useless daughter who amounted to nothing according to her.

Ironically, the feeling was mutual as I deeply resent her for being completely useless at a time my father needed her the most, and the resentment has festered inside me. She was the main reason I started seeing a therapist. I had so much loathing that I needed help.

As for my other sisters (besides Jean), they are as useless as my mother and they too decided to move back home making the situation worse for us. Jean and I took the responsibility of taking care of the entire family– buying the groceries, feeding them, taking my father to every doctor's appointment, and even washing their clothes (Jean does this – I suggested we throw my sisters dirty clothes in the trash). It is not surprising that my therapy sessions have tripled since I moved back home.

Even with the heavy rain pouring down and the sporadic thunder cracking above, I jumped at the sound my front door made as it slammed against the house. I recoil at the sight of my angry mother standing fierce with hands on her hips from the doorway.

"ROCKY - get in here NOW and stop lingering like a hobo. WHERE IS YOUR FATHER?"

My inner cringe went into overdrive the moment I saw my mother scowling at me from the front door waiting for an answer. It took everything in me to not roll my eyes at her - because 1) I was an adult and adult woman don't roll their eyes at their mothers, right? and 2) She was wearing her glasses and would be able to see my 36-year-old eyes roll. By her current irritated mood, I didn't want to poke the angry bear.

"WELL? Where is your father? AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING JUST STANDING THERE LIKE A DUMMY? AND why do you look like a pig that just rolled around in its own filth? GET IN HERE. I HAVE SOME NEWS."

Without looking back at my father's truck, I slowly march toward my mother.

Pops owes me, BIG TIME.

My mother slams the door when she sees me advancing toward her. I slow my pace and kick muddy rocks out my way as I head to the back of the house. I'm not allowed to enter the front of the house in this state. My entrance is through the mud room in back. The mud room was specifically made for me – to change and to keep my dirty boots and clothes in. The mud room resembles a huge shower – except in the place of a shower head, a long hose connected the sink near the washing machine where I spray the mud off me and my boots. The drying rack near the window usually has a collection of my wet non-muddy things.