part of the story

I was there so I know, and this is my story.

Empathy is like a gene, either you have it or you don’t.

When I did my due diligence, as some would say, my first reaction was anger, but I have learned to live with that. It will only get worse, is the lesson that overrides everything. It is only a symptom of what is there. What is there?

The anger seeks an answer and it is rationalized by disappointment. I think we all could have done better. I know I could have… Bingo. That is the place to stop.

I looked up, in order, my sister, brother, and mother on the internet. It has been nine years since I was unceremoniously kicked out of the house and the family. I tried to help, offered to travel there, I wanted to keep it in the family for my sister if she wanted it, and I even offered to buy it. The house was always the most important thing to my parents. I was told to call the realtor, called an asshole, and hung up on by my mother.

Nine years ago I was 53 and now I am almost 62.

That was, more or less, the last time I spoke with my mother. It was by design, not a word to anyone, over, and irreversible.

Some time before that, the matriarch had done a similar thing to my father — locked him up in a sanatorium somewhere like they did at the turn of the twentieth century solely because she has all the power.

There was no point talking anyway. I have never in my adult life had a conversation with my mother. Everything I say is say is preceded or followed with “Peter, ummpf.” When I was a kid I stuttered.

I have never met a person so…

But first, a story. I learned something from my mother a short time ago. I have taken to drinking little packets of Kool-Aid like concentrate mixed with water. The problem was, the glass pitcher I have to hold the mixture, one that seals tightly and can be shaken, is too small. When I emptied the whole package in the container and filled it with water, it was too strong.

I’ll add, recently I found an enhanced way to eat pizza: use crushed ice with the soda, it is more like an actual parlor.

The solution to the Kool-Aid problem is crushed ice. Soon it will melt and the mix will be fine.

Similarly, I always knew my day was over when I saw that giant giant Manhattan cocktail filled with ice.

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