Member-only story
I Wonder if They Wish
Like I do
I just got back from the store. I needed buttermilk for that carrot cake I’m making for my private Mother’s Day celebration. I like the one with pineapple and pecans in it. Maybe I’ll make a pot of clam chowder for the main course. Clam chowder and carrot cake. Sounds pretty darn good to me.
Yes, I’ll be celebrating quietly, as usual. I won’t even be going to church. Mother’s Day is the one Sunday of the year that I sluff church. On purpose. Oh, I work every other weekend like everybody else at the hospital. I’m okay with it. I’m sure the Lord is, too. After all, He’s the one who healed that man at the pool of Bethesda. On the Sabbath, no less. And at least twice a week, I’m reminded that He’s the example for how to act and what to do in any given situation. Meaning, in my case, that people need me to be there on Sunday. So, I work. No apologies.
But Mother’s Day is different. I avoid it like the spotted purple plague. Ex Number One left me on Mother’s Day, for another woman. Then he left her on Christmas for somebody else. Oh, that guy was a prince!
And his leaving inflicted a few deep wounds. They’ve largely scarred over now. The thought of seeing him or hearing his voice no longer fills me with sickening dread. At the same time, I’m relieved that I never have to see him again.
