“Remember that time I picked you flowers? They were so pretty, just like you,” he said. “You beat me senseless and said I’d ruined your garden. I was only six, Momma. I didn’t know any better.”
He took a deep, calming breath. “Remember that time I got in a fight? It didn’t matter that I didn’t start it. You still burned me with your cigarette to teach me a lesson.”
“You were a terrible mother. You never told me you loved me or that you were proud.” He placed a hand on her tombstone. “But I still miss you, Momma.”
Written for Friday Fictioneers.
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