Dear mother of a man, is your boy grown up enough for you? Do you still think he’s your little brown-eyed kid sulking for cotton candy? You wish he was, but he’s not. He sulks for bigger things now, you see, he’s a man now.
You’re a gardener, you nurtured him. You brought up a sapling but it turned out to be weed. It’s sickening, isn’t it? The same way it was when we bumped his fist on my face last night, called it possessiveness later. The same way it was when he looked at me like I was a used car at a garage sale, offered his half-baked apologies later. It’s harsh this way, but you would know that, wouldn’t you?
Do you still remember his first kick, because I do. Do you remember when your son was born and you threw a party for everyone you knew and didn’t? You were happy, weren’t you? Just like I was happy when he held my hand for the first time. I know, this happiness doesn’t last long.
Dear mother of a son, he likes to break, but we both know that. Toys then, people now. But he’s your boy, so you’d know. You always kept numb, I’m sorry. He hurt you the same way he hurt me, I’m sorry for that too.
I’m sorry you loved him too much, so much that you didn’t even notice you were raising a monster in place of a child.
Dear mother of no one’s man, I pity you. Take care.