I hate Mother's Day.
By Mark L. S. Stone
Her voice echoed weirdly. “Why are you here?”
“I’m here to see you.”
I reached her. In the scraps of light that filtered in I could make out the slippery bulk and shifting coils of what she had become.
“This is your fault,” she hissed, but she didn’t try to harm me.
“I did what I had to do,” I admitted, “I couldn’t let you succeed. But you’re still my mother.” I sat down. “Happy Mother’s Day, mom.”