Sins of the Mother

It would take too many posts to catch you up on the Sorta situation. I know, I know, I said that he was out of the picture posts ago and he should be. What can I say to defend my stupidity other than I like him?
We were supposed to meet up in New Orleans during my visit. He got the days off work and everything. We were supposed to chill. Long story short, he stood me up, claiming that he got sick after eating something on Canal Street. Two things: of course you got sick eating something on Canal Street and I'm not sure I believe him. I want to because he has been honest in the past, I think, and again, because I like him and the hassle of finding a new beau is just overwhelming!
Fast forward to yesterday. The doorbell rang and my mother ran to get the door. This is odd, seeing that my mom is 45 with the knees of Father Time and the back of a field hand. So yes, seeing her run up the stairs aroused my suspicions. Who was at the door? Why it was Al. Yay.
For lack of a better term, I call him my stepfather, for there really isn't a phrase to define a man who never married your mother yet fathered her other children while reigning Hell on your childhood. I'm being kind when I call him pathetic. But I will leave the treasure that is Al for another post. He is not the point of the story. The point of the story is how my mother runs to this negro, still, after years of him shitting on her and her children.
Watching this grotesque display got me to thinking about Sorta. How many times do I have to be slapped before I realize that I am being mistreated? My mom is still getting slapped. Brownie told me I deserve better. I agree. What happened to my mom that she didn't care to look for someone better? Did she just get tired like I am now? Whatever the case may be, the whole sight kicked some sense into me, because even though I don't want to be alone, I don't want to be my mother.