I sat in my Spanish mother’s car, gripping the handle on the car door so tightly that my knuckles turned white. She had started to cry, and this made her driving even more atrocious than usual.

It was my last day; she was driving me back to the school at which I had for studied the last six weeks, where I would be picked up along with the other Americans in the program and driven to the airport in Madrid. I was finally going back to America.

I had hoped for an experience in Spain similar to the one my friend had had the year before on the same program.

She had come back best friends with her Spanish sister, and to this day visits her when she can.

My dad pleaded with me to go into my Spanish family with no expectations, but I could not help myself.

I imagined a perfect Spanish family with a perfect Spanish sister with whom I would establish a lasting friendship.

Unfortunately, my experience with my Spanish sister can only be described as unpleasant.

For my whole stay I had listened to my Spanish mother talk about her grievances with her daughter, who neither worked nor went to school, but rather spent her days sleeping and her nights out "roaming the streets," as my Spanish mother called it.

The day before I left I was forced to take a stand.

I was packing my suitcase when I found that my favorite swimsuit was missing.

I had, once before, found a shirt of mine in Almudena’s room, clearly worn, but had not said anything.

Almudena was not home, so I went into her room to search for my swimsuit.

I found the bottom on her bed, but the top was missing.

Another one of my shirts was on the floor.

I had a choice to make. I could either remain silent and just take the shirt, doing what Almudena almost certainly expected from me, or I could stand up for myself.

I decided on the latter, and went downstairs to talk to my Spanish mother. I explained my predicament to her.

Infuriated by her daughter’s rudeness, she told me to go through her cabinet and drawers. In her cabinet, I found several other shirts of mine and a headband, but no bathing suit top.

My Spanish mother said she would take care of it, so I headed for the beach with my American friends for the last time.

When I got home, I found a letter and my bathing suit top waiting on my bed.

The letter briefly apologized for taking my clothes without asking. I still wonder whether she had any intention of returning them.

She avoided the house until I left so that she would not have to face me again. While it upset me that she never said goodbye to me, I had never felt so proud of myself.

I had found that I had the strength to stand up for myself when necessary.

While I never learned enough about Almudena to become friends with her, I definitely learned a lot about myself.

I sat mulling these things over on my final drive to the school, trying to distract myself from the reeling of the car.