You haven't seen me in months. You didn't come for Christmas, or my birthday. You decided you were too busy for us, for me. You cause drama from far away because you can't say anything to our faces. You won't even say sorry to me.
And then you send a card. Decked out in a dull, baby-blue envelope with handwriting displaying my full name but for my mothers, and circling your address with a cloud.
And you expect me to rip it open, don't you? You expect me to forgive you for all you've done, all you're doing. All you've put us all through.
You expect me to set you back upon your once-pedestal.
Unfortunate. No luck for you. That pedestal has been sent to the crematorium. Congratulations, you're burning gold.