More Monologues

I don’t get it.
I don’t get how you can sit there and pretend like everything is fine. Things are–things are NOT fine, mom. They haven’t been fine for a long time. I know you favored her. Oh, don’t look at me like that, we all knew it–hell, even the kids at school knew. But I kept my mouth shut for her sake. It wasn’t her fault you just arbitrarily decided to favor her. How is that, mom? How do you look at your own flesh and blood and decide “you, but not you”. Never me. How do you call yourself a mother when you were, at best, half? You weren’t a mother to me. The basics, that’s what you gave me. Enough to get by, enough so the neighbors wouldn’t whisper too much at your holiday parties. But Samantha would be the one in a new dress. Always in a new dress, or with a new toy or whatever.
Sam’s dead, Mom. Samantha is dead. It’s not fair or right or easy, but it’s the truth. So you have to let go, mom. You have to move on. I am. I have. I moved on a long time ago. You gave me that, at least. The power to just–forget about someone. The power to just–move on. You. Not her. You.


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