“Where do you even complain when your own daughter hates you?”
Muttering to herself, Zoe lay slumped on the sunken sofa, her face buried in her hands. “Someone ought to tell her—anyone—that a mother deserves respect. Just *someone* to make her see…”
The room was steeped in dull, grey twilight. The air hung thick with the stench of stale wine, unwashed dishes, and something sour clinging to the walls. Zoe couldn’t bring herself to get up—her head pulsed as if a freight train had lodged itself inside her skull, each halt bringing a fresh wave of nausea. Where had she passed out? When? The last hours of the evening were a blur. The bottle had appeared, as it always did, and the rest was blank.
She was alone again.
Sophie *hated* drunks.
It wasn’t just dislike—it was a deep, gnawing hatred, roots twisted into her very bones. It went back to childhood, to those nights when their flat felt like a warzone. Her mum would stumble in, slamming the door, fumbling for the light switch, colliding with walls. Sometimes she’d fall. Sometimes she’d pass out right there in the hallway, never making it to bed.
Once, when Sophie was seven, she’d found Zoe face-down in the mud outside their building. Seven years old, and she already knew shame—the reek of alcohol, the neighbours’ stares, the snickers from schoolmates: *”Sophie, did your mum sleep in a ditch again?”*
She learned to swallow her tears. To hide the broken dishes. To sneak empty bottles to the bins in the dead of night. By ten, she knew how to scrub wine stains from the carpet and wipe sick off the walls. Every evening was a gamble. Zoe might sob, scream, smash a glass jar against the wall—or worse, turn on *her*. So Sophie would sit frozen in the dark, clutching a pillow, barely breathing. Just praying not to be noticed.
She got out the second she could. University, night shifts to afford a dingy flat, then meeting Tom—steady, quiet Tom. They married. Had a son, Oliver. And Sophie swore: *He’ll never see me like that. Never flinch at footsteps in the hall. Never scrub a floor because of me.*
Her home was everything she’d never had. Warmth. Quiet. Fresh-baked bread, bedtime stories, linen smelling of lavender.
She barely spoke to Zoe. Only during the rare “sober spells,” and even then, clipped and distant. She wouldn’t let her in. Not an inch.
But Zoe didn’t—*couldn’t*—understand.
Mornings for her were headaches and curses. She’d wake on the kitchen tiles among fag ends and a plate of congealed grease, or sprawled on the sofa with no memory of how she got there. Sometimes she’d weep, bitter: *”Ungrateful cow. I raised her, and she bolts like I’m nothing. Not a call, not a visit. My own flesh and blood…”*
Other times, she’d hurl a glass at the wall, shrieking: *”Selfish brat! Thinks she can scrub me out of her life? I’ll die alone, and she won’t even know!”*
And sometimes—just sometimes—she’d cry. Soft. Broken. Because she *knew*. Knew every “just one more” had chipped away at her daughter’s love. That she’d traded it all for bottles. And it was too late to fix.
She’d flip through dusty photo albums, staring at a tiny Sophie—ribbon in her hair, eyes trusting—then at her own younger face. Before the spiral. Before the cracks spread.
And for a second, fear flickered in her eyes. *”What have I done?”*
But usually, anger won. *”She’s MY daughter! Why doesn’t she care? Why do I rot here while she plays happy families?”*
She’d grab the phone, half-mad, ready to ring *some* authority—*”Make her respect me! There’s got to be a law!”*—then slam it down. Stagger to the cupboard. Reach for the half-finished bottle. Easier to drown than face the truth.
Sophie knew Zoe was alone. Knew the drinking would kill her one day. But her heart had long burnt to ash. The pain taught her one thing: *Save yourself first. If someone drags you under, let go. Even if it’s your mother.*
Because respect isn’t something you demand. It’s something you earn. Or keep. But once it’s gone? No law, no plea, no bottle can bring it back.
And there’s no one left to complain to.
No one to blame.
Because you did it yourself. Bottle by bottle. Silence when you should’ve said: *I’m sorry.*
