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A Broken Family When I was growing up, I always dreamt of having a family; a husband, wife, two kids and a pet. I always wanted a house with a nice, green lawn and a white picket fence and our dog outside the door. I always wanted everything so perfect simply because I came from a broken family. You could call my family a broken family due to a divorce, which sent everyone their own separate ways. While growing up in California, I can’t remember ever having a fun weekend with my parents. As soon as Friday came, my dad called his friends to let them know about the party at my house. The parties at my house lasted from Friday until Sunday. I can always remember my house full of people, mostly men, loud music and beer cans everywhere you looked. It was the same thing every weekend. I remember always seeing my dad sitting in the dining room table, playing poker, drinking and with my mom on his side singing. When she wasn’t next to him, it was because he had sent her off with one of his friends to dance. She had to dance even if she didn’t want to or else she was in trouble with my dad.
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