“Don’t.” Dreamy holds up a hand. “Do not speak of my son. He’s dead because of you.” Whoa, Mary Pat thinks. Hold on one fucking second there. “I didn’t kill your son,” she says. “No?” Dreamy says. “You raised a child who thought hating people because God made them a different shade of skin was okay. You allowed that hate. You probably fostered it. And your little child and her racist friends, who were all raised by racist parents just like you, were sent out into the world like little fucking hand grenades of hate and stupidity and, and, and you can go fuck yourself, Mary Pat, if you think for
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