Call this firepile a home

I wandered downstairs around noon. I needed another bottle of water, since it wasn't likely anyone was going to get me a bottle of Chateau Screwtop right then. My parents were in the family room reading the paper.
"Do I have to go back to school on Monday? I got my university acceptance," I said.
My parents said that yes, I had to go back. "What if I can't? I don't want to see anyone, I feel awful, I get anxiety attacks just thinking of being at school now."
"Well, Sandra, you probably should think about going back to the therapist, not the one the school had you go to, but the one you went to before," my father said.
"I hate therapy. All they want to do is fix me," I said. My mother looked worried.
"Maybe I should ask Miranda to ask Duncan to tone down his online writing," she said.
"No, she already knows we've got an overly-emotional daughter: Sandra, just don't read it," my father said. "This is just standard teenage drama, and you'll get over it."
"Like Mom got over you never doing anything stupid and romantic for her?" I asked. My father was being more rational than he needed to be.
"She's right, Don. I remember how I was at her age."
"Emily, you were agonizing over your MCATs at her age. When I met you, you seemed more grounded than any other girl at university," my father said. My parents were slowly heading towards another argument, but I didn't care; I waited to see if my mother was going to rise to the bait. She did.
"Don, you just weren't paying any attention. You never picked up on anything then, and you're just trying to rationalize everything now." I went back to my room to let them argue it out. Charles Wallace wandered by a bit later.
"You did it again. Now they'll stay mad all weekend."