Ruby May

You are now most likely sitting in a comfortable chair, or perhaps unable to leave your bed. The last time I saw you, your belief that you’d done a good job raising your only son fading so rapidly that your face looked like a time lapse photo of a dying rose, you were still relatively young. You were probably younger than I am right now.

I was the second woman he’d tossed aside, despite having to go through the tedium of legal processes. Who knows how many he left when all he had to was stop calling them? But he didn’t just leave women. He left a child as well. Who does that? What is he? What have you brought into this world, my slight statured, pursed lipped former mother in law? What have you wrought?

George was a doll. Damaged, but a doll. WWII did something to him. He had a hard time driving across bridges. What did you offer him, to win such a prize? Perhaps, in your youth, you were not judgmental, or pious, or chilly. If that is so, what happened to you?

Did you know that your daughter loathed you? Perhaps not at the end, when you took care of her in her final illness. Maybe she’d forgiven you by then.

I still haven’t. You sent my mother, nursing a dying husband at the time, a Christmas card that December after your son dumped me for one of his students, but not before knocking her up with one of your grandchildren you claim. In your card, you bragged about the grand baby. And having your son and new daughter in law home for the holidays. Not a word about how you might be sorry that your son kicked her daughter to the curb for some little skank who cheated on her own husband to break up a marriage. Is that what they tell you to do at your Big Box Baptist Church in Sheffield?

I will never forgive you. I will never forgive your son. Too bad the two good ones are dead, George, and his daughter, and the shits are left. You and your boy.

You have no idea what a fine person your granddaughter is. You blew us off, Ruby May. You blew it.

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