“Where do I complain if my daughter hates me?”
—There ought to be someone to complain to about my daughter—muttered Zoe, sprawled on the sagging sofa, her face buried in her hands—someone to explain she ought to respect her mother. Anyone. Just one bloody person…
The room was steeped in grey twilight. The stale reek of off wine, unwashed plates, and thick, unmoving air clung to the walls. Zoe couldn’t sit up—her head throbbed like a train was stuck inside her skull, each jolt bringing fresh waves of nausea. Where had she passed out? When? She couldn’t recall. Just like she couldn’t remember when the bottle had appeared last night—or where the hours had gone.
Once again, she was alone.
Emily hated drunks.
It wasn’t just dislike. It was hatred, deep and ancient, like the roots of an old oak threading through her very bones. Since childhood—since those evenings when their flat turned into something like hell: her mother stumbling in, slamming the door, missing the light switch, clinging to the walls. Sometimes she’d collapse. Sometimes she’d sleep right there in the hallway, never making it to bed.
Once, Emily had found Zoe face-down in the mud outside their building. She was seven. Seven years old—and already she knew shame. Knew the stench of booze, the neighbours’ stares, the snickers from classmates:
—Oi, Emily, your mum’s either in the bin or under the table tonight, yeah?
She learned to swallow her tears. Learned to hide shattered glasses, stuff empty bottles into bin bags, and sneak them out where no one could see. She mopped floors when her mother couldn’t stand. Washed, cleaned, cooked—because that was the only way to survive. By ten, she knew how to get wine stains out of carpets and scrub sick off walls.
Every night was a trial. Zoe would talk to herself, scream, sob, smash a jar against the wall, collapse. And Emily would sit in the dark, clutching a pillow, holding her breath. Waiting. Trying not to stir, not to provoke, not to be noticed. Because drunk Zoe was unpredictable—sometimes weeping, sometimes shouting, sometimes swinging.
Emily grew up. Left the first chance she got. Went to university, worked evenings to afford a rented room. Then she met Thomas—quiet, steady. They married. Had a son, Oliver. And Emily swore to herself:
—My child will never see me drunk. Never flinch at footsteps in the hall. Never scrub vomit off the floor.
She protected him fiercely. Softness, warmth, home-baked bread, bedtime stories, clean sheets smelling of lavender. Everything she’d never had.
She barely spoke to Zoe—just stiff, brief conversations during her mother’s rare “sober” spells. She wouldn’t let her into her life. Not an inch.
But Zoe—never understood.
Her mornings started with headaches and curses. She’d grumble, trip over furniture, wake up on the kitchen tiles among fag ends and greasy plates. Sometimes on the sofa, no memory of getting there.
Sometimes—weeping, wounded:
—That ungrateful cow! I gave birth to her, stayed up nights, and she bolts like I’m nothing. Not a call, not a letter. Her own mother…
Sometimes she’d hurl a glass against the wall and shriek:
—Selfish brat! Thinks she can just erase me like a typo! I’ll die alone, and she won’t even know!
Sometimes—just silence. Bitter silence. Because deep down, 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 she’d try to pinpoint where it went wrong. After her husband died? After she lost her job? Or earlier—when she decided an evening tipple was “just to unwind”?
Now she lived alone. No family. No grandson. Just bottles and old photos.
She’d flip through the dusty album, staring at Emily—little, ribboned, trusting. Then at herself. Younger. Before everything spiralled.
And something like fear would flicker in her eyes.
—What have I done?
But more often—rage won.
—She’s MY daughter! Why doesn’t she care?! Why am I rotting here while she plays happy families?!
Then she’d grab the phone, ready to ring the authorities, to demand:
—Make her respect me! There must be laws! I’m still her mother!
But then… she’d drop it. Drag herself up. Stagger to the cupboard where a half-finished bottle waited. Because oblivion was easier than the truth.
Emily knew Zoe was alone. Knew she was drinking. Knew she could die in that empty flat, undiscovered for days. But her heart had long since burned out—nothing left but cold ash. A lifetime of pain had taught her one thing: save yourself first. If someone’s dragging you under—let go. Even if it’s your mother.
Because respect isn’t something you can demand. Sometimes you earn it. Or don’t lose it. But once it’s gone—you can’t get it back. No matter how much you want to.
And there’s no one left to complain to.
No one and nothing.
Because you wrecked it all yourself.
Bottle by bottle. Silence by silence.
Never saying the one thing that might’ve mattered:
—I’m sorry.
