**Where Can I Complain If My Daughter Hates Me?**
*”I need to complain about my daughter somewhere,”* muttered Zoe, sprawled on the sunken sofa, her face buried in her hands. *”Someone has to make her understand—you should respect your mother. Anyone. Just… anyone.”*
The room was steeped in a dull, grey twilight. The stench of stale wine, dirty plates, and stale air clung to the wallpaper, sinking into the very walls. Zoe couldn’t stand—her head throbbed as if a train had derailed inside her skull, every lurch bringing fresh nausea. Where had she passed out? When? She couldn’t remember. Just like she couldn’t remember the moment last night when she’d picked up the bottle, or where the hours had vanished.
Once again, she was alone.
Emily hated drunks.
It wasn’t just dislike. It was hatred, deep and old, like the roots of an ancient tree twisting through every fiber of her being. Since childhood, since those nights when their flat had become something close to hell: her mother staggering through the door, slamming it too loud, fumbling for the light, clinging to the walls. Sometimes—falling. Sometimes—collapsing right there by the entrance, never making it to bed.
Once, when Emily was seven, she found Zoe face-down in the mud outside their building. Seven years old—and she already knew shame. Knew the stench of booze, the stares of neighbors, the taunts of classmates: *”Emily, is your mum passed out in the gutter or under a table this time?”*
She learned to swallow her tears. Learned to hide the broken crockery, to gather empty bottles into sacks and carry them to the bins when no one was looking. Emily mopped the floors when her mother couldn’t stand. Washed, cleaned, cooked—because otherwise, life was unbearable. By ten, she knew how to lift wine stains from the carpet and scrub vomit off the walls.
Every evening was a trial. Her mother muttered to herself, screamed, sobbed, smashed jars against the wall, collapsed. And Emily sat in the dark, hugging a pillow, holding her breath. Waiting. Praying not to provoke, not to anger, not to be noticed. Because drunk mothers were unpredictable—sometimes they wept, sometimes they shouted, and sometimes, they hit.
Emily grew up. Left the first chance she got. Got into university, worked nights to afford a bedsit. Then she met James—steady, dependable. They married. Had a son, Oliver. And Emily made herself a promise: *”My child will never see me drunk. Never flinch at footsteps in the hall. Never clean up after me.”*
She shielded her son fiercely—soft blankets, bedtime stories, the scent of lavender on fresh sheets. All the things she’d never had.
With her mother, she spoke rarely. Brief, clipped conversations, only during Zoe’s rare “clear” spells. She refused to let her in. Not an inch.
But Zoe didn’t understand.
Every morning began with a hammering skull and curses. She muttered, swore, stumbled through the flat. Sometimes she woke on the kitchen tiles among cigarette butts and congealed plates. Sometimes—on the sofa, with no memory of how she got there.
Sometimes—in tears, choking on bitterness: *”Ungrateful brat! I gave birth to her, stayed up nights, and she bolts like a rat. Not a call, not a word. My own flesh and blood… my daughter.”*
Sometimes she hurled a glass at the wall and howled: *”Selfish little witch! Thinks she can erase me like a bloody typo! I’ll die alone, and she won’t even know!”*
Sometimes—she wept. Quietly. Bitterly. Because she *knew*. Knew she’d wrecked it all herself. That every *”just one more”* had chipped away at her daughter’s love. That she’d traded warmth for litres. And it was too late now.
Sometimes Zoe tried to pinpoint where it all went wrong. Was it after her husband died? After she lost her job? Or earlier—when she decided that an evening glass *”just to unwind”* was harmless?
Now she lived alone. No family. No grandson. Just a bottle and old photographs.
She opened the dusty album, the pages stiff with neglect. Looked at Emily—small, trusting, hair in a ribbon. Then at herself. Younger. Before the slow, sickening slide.
And for a second, something like fear flickered in her eyes. *”What have I done…?”*
But mostly, there was just rage. *”She’s MY daughter! Why doesn’t she care?! Why am I rotting here while she lives like none of it happened?!”*
Then Zoe would snatch up the phone, ready to call *”some authority”* and demand: *”Make her respect me! There must be a law! I’m still her mother!”*
And then… she’d hang up. Drag herself up. Stagger to the cupboard where the half-empty bottle waited. Because oblivion was easier than the truth.
Emily knew her mother was alone. Knew she was drinking. Knew she might one day die in that empty flat, unloved, unfound. But her heart had burned out long ago—nothing left but cold ash. A lifetime of pain had taught her one lesson: save yourself first. And if someone’s dragging you under—let go. Even if it’s your mother.
Because respect isn’t something you can demand. Sometimes, you have to earn it. Or not lose it. But once it’s gone—you can’t claw it back. No matter how much you want to.
And in the end, there’s no one left to complain to.
No one. Nothing.
Because you broke it all yourself. With your hands. Your bottles. Your silence, when you should have said: *I’m sorry.*
