The Hate

You’re becoming more and more the spitting image of your mother every day,” Uncle Henry said. It was 1946. Lillith scoffed.

“I would sooner resemble a turnip than resemble that odious wretch.”

“You must not speak ill of the dead,” Uncle Henry said.

“Hmm, Uncle?” Lillith said revealing her left ear.

“You’ll have to speak up; this is the ear mother used to sm…