Trying to forget

This is something I wrote for my creative writing class

What you have heard is true. I was in her house. Her husband whom was a bigger man carried a lighter and a cigarette dangling from his fingers nearly everywhere he went. Their daughter, Maria who at one point used to be their little angel was out past curfew, again. Their son, Benjamin was sitting on their shelf. The wife, Patty, was sitting on the couch.On the side table next to her was a remote and batteries. The t.v. was broken making a perfect home for spiders.
The moon hung high in the sky as if it were a stage prop, and the end of the house were its stage. The house’s paint was chipped and flaking. It looked almost as if you would touch it and it would fall like a card house, but its gothic style structure dates back too far to make you think it was anything but secure. The inside was just as unkempt, things were askew, nothing made sense. The colors didn't match and there was barely enough light to see. But one thing was astoundingly weird. There was a little yellow radio placed on the fireplace, it never made noise, but it was the brightest thing in the room. 
At dinner we had many things but it mainly consisted of burned steak and mashed potatoes. A single white rose was the centerpiece yet seemingly was there only for aesthetics. I had brought some flowers though they were not brought out, bread and a bottle of white wine that seemed to go mostly untouched except by the husband. I was asked about my family and my job, but wasn’t allowed to say much on either subject. Soon after my short interrogation, there was a brief static silence when asked everyone in unison just called it a commercial.  
As fast at it had come, it was gone. Once everyone was done with dinner Patty took everything off the table except for the white rose. The family started to make some small talk on how easy it was to become forgotten about. I felt like there was some deeper meaning to this as it suddenly got quiet but I didn't feel like it was my time to ask, I looked over at my friend who was quiet as well and staring at the table. 
Suddenly, over by the door their dog started barking signaling the daughter's arrival home. The husband whose name I had come to learn to be Bradley told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes, “don’t say anything.” Bradley returned with his daughter who I assumed before she left that night was sober, and now she was anything but sober as she came in stumbling behind him. He spilled the contents of the daughter’s purse onto the table. There looked to be about a dozen nip bottles and about half of them seemed to be empty. 
There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in her face, and dropped it defeatedly back onto the table. It laid there shattered. “I am tired of this Maria” he said “as for your so called friends” he shook his head “ tell those people they can have you.”  He swept the broken glass onto the floor with his arm and held the last of his tears in. Some of the tears fell on the floor and his voice cracked. “Some of us were trying to forget.”