Spring, Sour Grapes, & A Day After Mother’s Day

Forever being the ass, at least I refrained for twenty-four. But no more. Because time has gotten short, and I want it on the record. I hate Mother’s Day. And ditto for Dad’s.

After numinous institutions and foster homes, I arrived at the orphanage without a backstory. There being no drama, romance, nor parable of purpose and resilience in just flat-out and simply being abandoned.

And for me, this plot point came late, in ward of the state years, as I was in my early teens- my brothers being younger-when my parents began to disown, discard, and disavow the three of us.

So I arrived at the orphanage without a recognizable and relatable tale of woe. No drunk driver wrong way-ing an exit lane. No shipwreck in the Greek Isles. No Jet Setting jet crash. Just a Mom and Dad that ditched their kids.

And, parents who simply didn’t give a shit, is not a story one can dine out on. No appetite for that at all. On Mother’s Day, I make it a point, and I’m happy to dine alone.

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