Sundays were the worst

Sundays were the worst.

each Sunday,
my mother and I would be sitting at the kitchen table,
food laid out in front of us,
getting cold
while we waited for my father
to finish his last drink
and come home from the bar
to eat with his family.
the holidays were worse;
and my mother was a saint.
a softer, less selfless woman
would have put shards of glass
into my father’s food.
but not my mother.
she served this man hand and foot.
cooked all of his meals,
starting with breakfast in front of the TV
and ending with dinner,
which was almost always some fanciful dish
that my father wanted
and never the pizza or spaghetti
that I would ask for.
she washed and ironed all of his clothes,
including but not limited to
his stretched-out, booger-filled, cotton handkerchiefs.
and once I came into the world,
she found a way to do all that
and be the main provider in a household where
the man left his entire paycheck
at the bar.

Sundays were the worst…