The Young Bodyguard

- I do not want! (I exclaim in a caprice tone).

- It's not about what you want, it's about what you need.

May: Don't you think I'm too old for you to decide for me?

- No (he answers calmly, without even looking at me).

Those are the typical moments when I least tolerate my father, when he tries to control me, ignoring that I am no longer that little girl that he pampered so much before. I've grown up, I'm eighteen years old and have been a university student for several months. The serious problem is that he does not understand it, nor accept it or ... maybe he does, but in his own way.

Since I was a girl, trying to exercise any kind of control over me or do something that was against my will was the first step to earn my contempt and even more so at this age. I hate and always hated being told what to do. I will be selfish as Mom says sometimes, but I prefer to accept that and be independent in my life, not that my actions always depend on other people.

May: My opinion in this house never counts, right? (Looks at me) Not even when that changes something in my own life?

He sighs and for the first time takes his eyes off that screen. He removes his glasses and leaves them hanging from the collar of his blue shirt.

Tomás: You're a hard head huh.

He says and the first thing that comes to mind is that he changed his mind. He closes his notebook and stands up, leaving empty that black English armchair that he always occupies when he is at home. I visualize mom coming down the stairs. He approaches us when he is about to retire.

Cathy: Where are you going? (She asks with that cheerful tone that characterizes her so much).

Tomás: To work elsewhere, your daughter's attacks don't let me concentrate (he says, leaving).

After taking a couple of steps, he turns around.

Tomás: Remember that the new boy is taking you to college tomorrow.

Mom sighs, as she watches him disappear down that huge corridor that ends in the kitchen on one side and his office on the other. I flop onto the wide divan, placed in the center of the room, in front of the fireplace, which is dark, since it is summer. She takes a seat in my father's chair.

Cathy: Did they fight again?

May: You know perfectly well who starts fights, Mom.

Cathy: Y ... your dad says the same about you.

May: My dad says things that even he doesn't understand.

Cathy: Don't say that. The problem is not him, it's you (I look at her). Look at your brother if not, they get along excellent.

May (I give a little laugh): Because Oliver likes to be controlled like a mannequin and I don't. In that we are different ... luckily.

That said, I stand up and leave the room, going up to my room. I close the door behind me, turn on the Home Theater, and turn the music up loud. Minutes later, someone knocks on the door. I ignore it. Play again. I huff and open it, cursing inside.

May: What do you want? (I question angrily when I see it).

- Lower the volume, I need to study and you explode my brain with that.

May: Oh, what a pity little brother (I smile evilly). Bye.

I try to close the door, but he puts his hand on the other side of it and stops me.