By Peter J.
I opened the get-well-soon card in my hand. The edges were cut off, leaving a rounded rectangle. I didn’t want him to hurt himself.
“What d’ya think it should say?” I looked at his mother chopping lettuce.
“I don’t care. Stupid card ain’t gonna fix ’em. He ain’t worth it.”
“It ain’t his fault, he just—”
She slammed down the knife. I cringed.
“Yes it is his fault! He done’n messed up the family. Ain’t no son of mine.” She left the kitchen.
I gazed again at the empty floral card.
I understood now why he was in the mental hospital.
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