Mother's Day
"Everyone has a mother."
Sure, fair enough.
There had to have been someone
who donated a copy of half their genes
to mix with someone else's
and make me.
But...now the school wants to
force us
to make cards
and presents and gifts
and poems and flowers?
What the hell were we?
Kindergarteners?
I was fourteen years old--
going on fifteen.
I knew more than enough
to be able to say
that my mother
was not a good one.
And it's not like she would've care
if I did anything,
I mean,
I still loved her
deep down.
I refrained from blowing up on her
and I tried to listen to her
and to obey her.
Because deep in my heart,
I wanted her in my life--
I loved her
and cherished her
and appreciated every kind gesture she'd ever done.
But there were times,
when I just wanted to slap her.
And ask her if she even remembered
that I was fourteen--
that Shiloh was only twenty,
that I was her daughter--
that she was her daughter,
that she was dead--
that I--
And I had complained.
Yes, only to dad--
but still.
I refused to stay silent.
And that's exactly what he told me to do.
"I know Madeleine can be difficult,
but life's been hard on her.
She's trying her best and really loves you.
So please don't complain."
And,
thinking about it,
life had been hard on her.
But in my honest opinion,
it was just karma stabbing her back.
Over,
and over,
and over.
In my mother's fifty years of life,
she'd had dozens of affairs,
