Dear Mom,
Six years ago, you were depressed, addicted to prescription pain pills, and trapped in an abusive marriage. I fucking saved your ass. My husband and I took you into our home without a second thought. You lived with us for five fucking years. We got you healthy. We helped you get a job. We helped you get your life back. And we never asked you for anything in return. Not one fucking thing. Why? Because that’s what family does. When someone’s down, family is supposed to be there. You’re not much on learning by example, are you mom?
You are by far one of the most selfish people I’ve ever known. I called you crying once because I couldn’t afford my son’s medicine. Oh, you gave me the money—and asked for it back two weeks later. Bitch.
When you lived with me, you constantly criticized my parenting. Your kids never acted like that. Surprise, surprise, mom. Eli has fucking autism! Of course he’s a little more challenging than what you’re used to. The thing is, you still criticize me. I don’t need that shit from you.
When we were paying out of pocket for Lela’s evaluation, you fucking promised me that you would pay half. Two thousand dollars was a bit much at one time, especially considering that Joe had lost his fucking job. You had just gotten married to a man whom you bragged wouldn’t let you take on any household expenses. You said it would be no problem to help, but when it came time to pay up, what did you give me? Fifty fucking dollars! And if you hadn’t had the money to help because of some unforeseen emergency, then I would’ve totally understood. But what did you spend that money on? A convertible. Yeah. A fucking car, that you didn’t even need, I might add, was more important than your granddaughter.
You live twenty minutes away. You pass my house on your way to work. I haven’t seen you in a month. Do you know what Lauren said when I recommended that she call you about Grandparent’s Day at school? She said, “Why? She’s not going to come anyway.” That’s right—my nine year old has already learned not to rely on you. Lela doesn’t even ask about you anymore.
I’m going through hell right now. Did you know? You certainly don’t listen to me when I call you to talk about it. “Oh, Noah will talk when he’s ready. You worry too much.” That’s not what I need to hear from you. I get plenty of that from other dumbasses. What I want from you is a little support. A shoulder to cry on. But that’s too much for you, isn’t it. You don’t even bother to read my blog anymore. What really makes me sick, though, is how you gush on Facebook about how you have the BEST daughter. How I’m your best friend. Well, guess what? I may be your best friend, but you certainly aren’t mine.
