I could tell how she once had an airport meltdown when asked to remove her shoes in a security check, how she couldn’t believe they put her through a tighter check after she told the Jamaican officer that she was probably not even a citizen. I could explain how I was then blamed for the whole incident for not standing up for her.
I could relate the time she reamed me a new asshole for taking the toll lane with the longest line. I could explain how I was always screamed at whenever we were five minutes away from any long travel destination.
I could mention all this and much, much more, but I am better than that. So what if I never knew if I was coming home to Donna Reed or Joan Crawford. What does it matter that she clawed my face and tried to knee me in the groin when my son was late for a visit to our shore house. He just turned and drove two hours home when she hit him with a tirade.
It doesn’t matter that she almost ruined my son’s wedding because he did not include her in a “Wedding Dance.”