I don’t really think my mother likes me, not in the cinematic, “we’re enemies” kind of way.
more in the chemical-mismatch way.
I’m the smell she can’t stand but can’t identify in the fridge. she spends all of saturday gutting it, muttering about “chicken-shit” leftovers, and by the end she’s mad at the fridge itself; like she wants to castrate the fridge for embarrassing her in front of god.
I used to think that meant I’d failed; because she was still yelling at me.
now I just think it’s sad.
she deserved a child who made her comfortable.
and I deserved a mother who found me interesting instead of exhausting.
neither of us got what we wanted.
that sucks for both of us.