Change of Heart
I’d had enough. I was leaving.
Fuming, I yanked open my dresser drawers and crammed clothes into my duffel bag at random. Finding my wallet, I shoved it into the zippered pocket, wishing bitterly that my cheap parents hadn’t stopped giving me a weekly allowance. As I chucked more things into my bag, I heard my mother’s angry ranting from the kitchen, loud and defiant.
“...don’t know what you see in that god-awful boyfriend of yours, but why should I care? Run off, get married, have ten goddamn kids! Live in a trailer park, for all I care! And I thought I raised you better than this, but no, there you are, sneaking off to some tattooed pothead boy’s bedroom at two in the morning.
Share this article: