My Mother Is The Last Person Essay
My father is like a Monday morning - waking up after a long weekend and being forced to suffer through yet another never-ending week. No one likes Mondays, at least no one that I have ever met. They can be described as worthless and depressing – like the diseases that poison innocent human beings and slowly, but surely ruin their lives. Maybe he was unprepared to be a father; maybe he is bitter because he never had the son he had hoped for. Maybe his rough childhood had impacted him more than I realized. Growing up with a pessimistic mother and an alcoholic father helped determine his fate as a parent. They always say you end up comparable to your parents.
Clearly something had appeared to be different and it never hit me until I saw tears stream down my mother’s face. My mother is the last person in the world to deserve this. The first time I saw my mom cry, I felt real hate. I felt the pain as if I had been the one that had been emotionally scarred. As if I had been stabbed in the stomach and could feel the knife in me, but I remain too powerless to pull it out. Shaking and trembling, I fall to my knees and feel helpless. I could picture it all so clear. I never realized that what I saw had not been the worst of it. Being too young, too oblivious to understand anything different. It then made sense to me that my father was gone more than he should have been.
Hate tastes like burnt toast - trying to swallow but the dry crumbs stay lodged in the back of my throat.…