I'm Glad My Mom Died

Moms are saints. Angels by merely existing. NO ONE could possibly understand what it’s like to be a mom. Men will never understand. Women with no children will never understand. No one but moms know the hardship of motherhood, and we non-moms must heap nothing but praise upon moms because we lowly, pitiful non-moms are mere peasants compared to the goddesses we call mothers.

Would she be okay if I wasn’t perfect?

maybe Mom only sits in when I’m being the thing she wanted to be

“She does. She does have a great sad face,” Mom says, nodding and beaming

but it’s Mom’s tears I’m more worried about.

How can he not know? How can he never know?

Why does everything feel so stuck with him?

I’m always crossing my fingers for a laugh, or a hair rustle, or a hug, but they never come, or at least not yet. I’m still hoping.

I wonder if there’s something different I could have done to get us out the door faster. I wonder if there’s something I can do in the future.

Tries to make herself look like a victim.