I pity you.

It has to hurt to be that callous. I can't imagine what a foul, polluted place your mind must be. Nothing good ever escapes it. It must be stifling in there, what with all the hate and stupidity banging around, causing all that hot air you spew. There's a reason your children don't respect you. You don't deserve it. There's a reason you don't have any friends. You haven't earned them. There's a reason you will die a lonely death. You won't let anyone in.
I don't know why you felt the need to tell me you love me. We both know you don't. We both know the truth of the matter. There's no point in pretending. Your son stopped caring about anything a long time ago. That, above all else, will be your legacy. You gave him nothing as a mother. You didn't teach him how to love, how to care, how to experience the world with any sort of joy. You gave him to the world, a huddled mess of broken bits. It's amazing he's become the man he is in spite of you.
I'm done. I'm done pretending that it's all ok. I'm done playing nice when you don't deserve it. I'm fucking done with you and all your games. The next time you attend a funeral and decide to comment on the "box" the bereaved have chosen, or the appearance of the spouse of the deceased, I will knock your last tooth out and spit in your face. You are a cancer. Consider me your chemo.

Signed,
The Bitch Who's Sick of Your Shit