M stands for the murderous feelings you had for my father, wishing him dead the day before he died from a heart attack.
O stands for the ostracism you endured when, after you attacked me with a broom, I didn’t speak to you for a year in the eighties.
T is for the trial you put me through when I brought Judy, my Jewish girlfriend, home to meet you and you bragged how you had “Jewed-down” Mexican merchants on a trip to Tijuana.
H is for the humiliation I felt as you boasted to your friends that I wore “Husky” pants when I weighed 164 pounds in sixth grade and you didn’t think I was fat.
E stands for the psychotic envy you displayed when, in your seventies, you proclaimed that you were “prettier” than me.
R is for your favorite name for my father: “Rotten Son-of-a-Bitch,” which you called him when he was drunk and didn’t care.
