We fought all the time. Stupid things, you know? The kind that are only important when you’re a teenager. Do the dishes, clean your room, come home before eleven. The way I reacted, you’d think they’d asked me to climb a mountain or something.
Told them no, fuck off, go to hell. Told them they were horrible parents. Never told them I was sorry, never took it back, said I didn’t mean it. Never said I love you enough.
Like one of those stories on the internet, lost the chance. Drunk driver, icy road. Just like that, no more opportunities.
Prompt from A Writer’s Book of Days by Judy Reeves