He Said My Mother Dying Wasn’t His Problem

tomato stakes in my mother’s yard, leaning slightly after the rain.

“Okay.”

“Can we meet?”

“No.”

“I made a mistake.”

“Yes.”

Silence on his end. Then, “You’re really throwing everything away.”

There it was again. That strange trick people do when they set the house on fire and call you wasteful for not sitting in it.

I watched my mother sleeping, one hand curled continue reading …