Dear Boyd,

This is not an easy letter to write, but in light of what you told us on the phone yesterday, your father and I have decided that it’s best if you don’t come home to visit this summer. In fact, we’d prefer it if you didn’t call or write to us, either, at least not until you’ve matured beyond this self-destructive phase you’re in.

We will always love the Boyd we knew, but we cannot condone your sinful lifestyle. At the same time, it pains us to wonder what we did wrong and how we might have failed you, that you would choose to follow such a degenerate path. Was it that bowl haircut we gave you? You have to remember, that was a different time, back when people thought it was cute for boys to look like Peggy Fleming. You can’t blame us for that.

Whatever the reason, as long as you say you are “in love” with that LaPazz 8”x6” Graphics Tablet, we cannot consider you our son.

Even as I turn you away, my heart cries out: why, Boyd? Why? What do you see in its 1024 pressure sensitivity levels, 2000 lpi resolution, and 8” by 6” working area that you can’t find in a normal, healthy relationship? Why do you prefer a USB connection to an emotional connection? I don’t want to hear about handwriting recognition when I can’t even recognize my own son.

Our hearts are heavy. This tears us up inside. But right is right. Perhaps someday you will return to the faith we raised you in and welcome the mighty storm god Ba’al back into your heart. Maybe you’ll surprise us by bringing home a nice pagan girlfriend. On that day, we will sacrifice many goats, and drink deeply of their blood in celebration. Until then, we have no son.

By the profane cloven hooves of the goat lord,
Mom

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