Abstraction of War

I crept cautiously down the stairs, I looked at my watch, it was almost 6:30, dinnertime. My heart began to beat quickly, my chest filled with dread. I tiptoed to my place at the table. I kept my eyes down, looking at my hands, not saying a word. My dad entered the dining room; he sat down hard in his chair, his battle face on. My mother slammed a pot of food on the table, daggers in her eyes directed at dad. In some home meal times are called dinner; in my home it means war.