My mother knows from suffering in silence. She said nothing when Saint Sebastian showed up one night dripping blood from where the arrows pierced his skin, merely inviting him in for a drink. He came back the next night, Joan of Arc in tow.
Now, dead saints fill the house to the brim showing off whatever gruesome wound made them into such spectacular victims. Gah!
And my mother only sighs as she pours coffee and tea refills or makes another batch of homemade cookies.
I’m thinking of blowing the whole place to smithereens, but that’d only make matters worse, right?
And you think your mother is bad…