Mea Culpa

My Darling Heirs,

Forgive me, my sons. I didn’t realize the abuse that I’ve forced you to tolerate.

How can I live with myself knowing that I’ve scarred you for life by making you breakfast each morning? I know, I know. You tried to tell with your subtle hints that this practice was unwelcome (“Oh, God, no…not poached eggs again!”), but would I listen? Noooooo. I just kept flipping that French toast, dispensing vitamins and pouring orange juice, not aware how it was killing you inside.

As much as it will pain me, I promise you that I will try in the future not to be home whenever you call for transportation or cash. It was callous of me not to understand how humiliating it is for your friends to see how you have access to whatever you want with a simple phone call.

Instead I realize I should be grateful to you for maintaining your grades in school. This totally selfless act must be so difficult to keep up knowing that its only benefit will be to a mother who is so obviously oblivious to your needs.

Can you ever forgive me for being so nosey about what you do? I’ve come to realize this character flaw is so very unattractive. After all, what business is it of mine what you do with your friends, no matter how many of them have a record?

It was total selfishness when I quit my decent-paying job where I had seniority to stay home and raise you. I know the subsequent decrease in money which led to my force-feeding you homemade food is a constant nightmare to you. I’m sorry you both saw your fourteenth birthdays having never tasted Spaghetti-ohs.

I am sure that I join your father in apologizing for staying married and present. We realize this makes you stick out like a sore thumb among your peers. I’m so sorry our early involvement with your movie, television and book choices so thwarted the development of your language skills in the area of profanity.

I understand how embarrassing it is for you when something prevents you from telling your teachers or the principal where to get off. I’ll never forget the anger in your face when you told me, “I wanted to tell (the teacher) to go to hell, but I just couldn’t. And it’s all because of you.” Such an indictment haunts me to this day.

I’m sorry the cafeteria lady finds you polite. I’m sorry girls find you safe. I’m sorry your friends’ parents enjoin them to be “just like those nice Linguini boys.”

How long I can live with this guilt, I don’t know. But it will help to know that you, at least, can show mercy on the evil witch I have been.

Love,

Your Mother