I raged.

I said horrible things. I said them over and over because she’s ninety and can’t remember one sentence when the next one is spoken.

I said I hate your disgusting G-d. Your decrepit bible decaying on the dining room table nauseates me. I said, when I needed you, you prayed. You never asked me, how can I help? I repeated the bile, dragged it up again and again. 

Until she remembered this: I don’t want to hear, “I’m a terrible mother.” I want to hear, “I love you.”


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