“Why do you look down?” My mother asked.
“I’m tired.” I said.
My mother sucked her teeth. “What do you know about being tired, huh?”
*Here we go*
“Try carrying someone for nine months, sacrificing your body and whole being so a person can be born. Try giving your life for someone who really doesn’t care for you.”
“Mom,” I began, pressing the bridge of my nose. “Cut the shit. I’m sick of this same argument. I didn’t ask to be born. I didn’t ask you for *anything.* You knew what came with being a parent. If you didn’t want it or expected some sort of compensation for letting ‘me be’ I rather have been aborted.”
I poured coffee into my mug and went back to my room to the the sound my mother stammering with faint sobs to finish the last few pages of a long and agonizing dissertation.