Mother's Day.
It's the one day the restraining order doesn't cover. When I was 9 years old my mom tried to sell me and my younger brother Curtis for a carton of smokes and half gallon of Wild Turkey when Dad was out of town on "business".
Mom's been in and out of jail and half way houses for the last 25 years. Once a year she calls either me or Curt on Mother's Day to try and guilt us into coming to see her, or wire her money for cigarettes. This year I got the call. It was collect.
We talked for about 10 minutes. She asked about the cats, she called Margaret a gold digger, and asked how Mrs. McCleary was doing. Mom hates the old bag, but asks anyway - I think she asks just in case she happened to drop dead since the last time we'd spoken. If the old bat hadn't been a few snorts short of the half gallon mom wanted there's a good chance Mrs. McCleary would have raised me and Curtis in the basement of her creepy old house.
Needless to say, I don't have a lot of use for Mother's Day. Margaret thinks I'm too hard on my mom - after all (according to Margaret) she brought me into the world, I should have a little respect. To be honest I have no idea how me and my brother survived our childhood. I have stories that can curl wallpaper about my dear old mom. Remind me to tell you about my first day of school some time.
However, if there's any good to come out of my childhood it's that I don't take life for granted. Life is for living, and I've learned not to try and keep score with my friends.
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