The way of resentment

His mother’s voice, the sound of it, he could hardly bear without holding a cup of chamomile tea in both his hands. His mother seemed unconcerned with much save the coupons she had clipped out of the Sunday paper. Some she would use to reline the pantry wall with green beans and creamed corn. Others she would stack neatly atop those already expired in a kitchen drawer just above the one that held the faded electric can opener. On the rare occasion when he had forgotten to steep tea beforehand, he felt he could not forgive her.