Shrill aunts doting, impersonal gifts, competitive quilts, insincere delight, ridiculous games, stale cake, punch: everything I can’t have.
They said Larry was a “funny uncle.” I didn’t understand. One night he slipped into my room. What he did wasn’t funny. Not funny at all.
When he realised he wouldn’t be first – too far behind – he desperately turned right, hoping for an egg overlooked by the other spermatozoa.
“He doesn’t mean it,” she says, pushing the bottle to her lips. “He really does love us.” I push the ice pack against my swollen eyes.
The orange sign says don’t go in, but momma knows better. We make our beds and wake to a cop in the morning. Momma cries and we leave again.
The first split is the first time she opens her eyes. She wakes, while the other still sleeps. And they’ve already begun to grow apart.