Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.

<passage>:
"It's OK Mom, I got it." "You should have let us come pick you up." Mom sighs, shoulders falling, looks at Sara directly. "I'm sorry honey." She looks old, Sara thinks, watching a resigned tiredness flicker across her face in a way she'd not noticed before. Like she's exhausted by conflict, surrendered to it. "Now, don't I get a hug?" Sara smiles. They hold each other for a few long seconds, rubbing and squeezing each other as the Lyft silently backs itself out of the driveway. When they part it's Mom's hand that's on the bag's handle. Inside she unwraps herself from scarves and layers, the heat in the house almost a shock after the cold air. Michigan in February. Mom is already halfway up the stairs, bag in tow, headed for her room. "Mom, just leave that and I'll…" "Your father's in the front room," she says, just before she disappears from view. "Go say hi." 'We know what really makes America great' Sara finds herself in the front room, sobbing. Dad pauses the TV, looks up at her. It looks like he's been crying too. "Sara?" Their first words in nearly a year. Fine. So far. She relaxes. Of course it is. How bad could it be? "I thought I was gonna come pick you up from the airport?" "Ah, no. I got a cab. I didn't want to bother you." "Bother me? You think I'm too old and infirm to pick my own daughter up from the airport?" "How much did that cost?" "Not much. Really. I can afford-" Mom and Dad watch Sara leave the room, and then look at each other. "That's not what I mean. They're stealing people's jobs." There's a brief second, a fleeting moment, where Sara can bite her lip, let it go. She misses it. "But I thought it was immigrants that are stealing people's jobs?" "You might think it's funny little lady, but let me tell you  - you remember Kyle and Max, Bill Cooper's boys? Live up off Lafayette, past the Checkers?" "Nope." "Well I'm sure they'll be fine." She regrets the sarcasm as soon as she hears it in her own voice, but she still can't stop herself, like it's expected, like it's part of the routine. Part of their schtick. "They just got to get themselves out there, huh Dad? Pull themselves up by their bootstraps. That's the American way, right?" "I'm glad you think this is funny, I really do. But what you New York types need to realise is-" "Ed!" Mom had appeared in the doorway. "Please! Both of you. No fighting today, please." Sara turns back to the TV, to watching the war, to trying to work out which one it is. It had always been this way, ever since she was about thirteen. Up until then it just seemed like constant warmth, as though she didn't have any childhood concept of Dad apart from him getting home from work, then her sitting on his knee, eating cookies and watching football highlights until Mom came in and scolded them both for ruining their appetites before dinner. And then everything changed. Suddenly there was rap music and nose rings, sneaking out of the house to see her friends and not wanting to go to church. Suddenly he was no longer this lovable bear-man that ruffled her hair and gave her candy and explained defensive plays to her, but this huge obelisk of injustice that just wanted to crush her high school life into dust. It was constant warfare every opinion she had became a battle, every decision she made a conflict. Getting away to college gave her escape, but bred resentment too he hated that she went to New York, even though NYU was a good school, and her decision to stay there after she finished made things even worse. And then politics got all crazy, weirder then ever, and it became impossible for them to talk without it erupting into fights almost instantly. It was bad enough when the smart, young guy she liked was president and Dad constantly spewed his hate for him at her, but somehow it got even worse when the old, racist, women hating war-starter he liked won. Twice. So they didn't talk much now, barely online, never on the phone. Since her second year of school he'd never been to NYC to visit her. She came back when she could face it sometimes for birthdays, sometimes for Thanksgiving. Maybe for Christmas. But somehow always, like now, for the Super Bowl. Like football was the one thing they still had, that one thing they could still sit in the same room together for. Shouting at players, screaming at the ref, laughing at the ads. Dinner is Mom's meatloaf, with gravy and mashed potatoes. Cornbread and broccoli. Every mouthful tastes like nostalgia, and Sara can feel herself being encompassed by a bubble, this barrier of warm air and long forgotten simplicity enveloping her body, protecting her from the confusion of the world outside. "How's work, honey?" Mom asks. "Yeah, going OK." Sara works for a non-profit in Brooklyn that helps big organisations to transition to renewable energy. The pay is lousy but it feels important. "We just got the last few schools in the city to agree to put solar panels on their roofs. Big deal for us. I've been working on them for the last two years." Mom says nothing, just looks down at her plate. Sara laughs, covering her mouth as she nearly chokes on chewed food. "What? No they don't Dad." "Look it up?" Sara shakes her head, not knowing where to even start. "Dad, who is telling you this stuff?" Oh, here we fucking go she thinks to herself. Sara looks over to Mom, who looks like she's on the brink of tears. Suddenly she finds she's also lost the will to fight. Gently she closes the iPad and puts it down on the table, next to her plate. "Don't joke Sara, I'm serious. There's a lot that bothers him. The state of the world. The future. All these damn wars." Sara looks up from her phone, genuine concern. "Is he OK?" "Yeah, well you know your father. Doesn't like to talk about it. Doesn't want to burden other people with his problems. Hates pity." She pauses, looks out the window into the yard. When she turns back to Sara her eyes are damp. "This is why I was so excited about you coming back. Why he was so excited! I thought it'd take his mind of all this. He was so excited to see you. You know he loves watching the game with you, Sara." Sara slips her phone into her pocket, genuine guilt. Feels like a spoiled kid. "I didn't realise. I'm sorry." "Sara!" says Mom. "Sara!" Mom makes to get up. Out in the kitchen Sara sits at the table and wants to scream. She's angry, mainly with herself. She should never have fucking come here. She should have known better. There was never any fucking way anything good was going to come from this. As much as Mom wants to romanticise things, to make them sound cute and adorable, the truth is shit with Dad has never been right since she was a teenager. Too much resentment, too much bad blood, too much control and rebellion. They hadn't agreed on anything - they hadn't managed to have a simple conversation that didn't descend into fighting - in 15 goddamn years, and no amount of eating cookies and watching fucking Super Bowl ads on the TV was going to fix that.

<question>:
At what point did Sara's relationship with her father sharply transition?

<options>:
A When she remained in New York after graduating from NYU
B When she pierced her nose
C When she began high school
D When she moved to New York

<answer>:

C