There were seven cardboard boxes on the front porch of my house, neatly stacked, marked, and taped. My mother nearly shit herself when she saw them, knowing still that I was leaving, had been planning to do this for six weeks.

"You’re tearing this family apart!" She screamed at me as I hauled each box out to my car myself. Most of the boxes were filled with books, very heavy. Still, it was the woman who had given birth to me two and a half decades before that looked strained. "You and that stupid fucking dago!" Her hands curled into fists as she spat at me.

"Mother," I managed as I lifted the last box, "he’s Irish. A dago is an Italian… stupid fucking mick…"

She did not take that at all well. I didn’t care. I was leaving.

"Don’t. You. Dare. Use that language with me, as if I’m a whore! Have respect for your mother!"

I closed the car door, walked back to the porch to face my mother one last time. I kissed her on one livid cheek.

"Goodbye, mom."

"This shit just isn’t done!"

But she knew it was, she simply chose not to see it.