—Where can I complain about a daughter who hates me?
—Someone should hear this, muttered Zoey, sprawled on the sagging sofa, her face buried in her hands. Someone ought to tell her a mother deserves respect. Anyone. Just one damn person…
The flat was dim, bathed in a grey half-light. The stench of rancid wine, unwashed dishes, and stale air clung to the peeling wallpaper. Zoey couldn’t move—her head throbbed as if a freight train had derailed inside her skull, every jolt bringing fresh nausea. Where had she passed out? When? She couldn’t remember. Just as she couldn’t recall when she’d grabbed the bottle last night, or where the hours had vanished.
She was alone again.
Emily hated drunks.
It wasn’t just dislike. It was hatred, deep as the roots of an ancient oak, twisted into every fibre of her being. From childhood, from those nights when their flat turned into something like hell: her mother staggering in, slamming the door, fumbling for the light switch, clinging to walls. Sometimes she’d collapse. Sometimes she’d sleep right there in the hallway, never making it to bed.
Once, Emily found Zoey facedown in the mud outside their building. She was seven. Seven years old, and she already knew shame. The reek of alcohol, the stares of neighbours, the jeers of classmates:
—Emily, is your mum in the gutter again or under the table this time?
She learned to swallow her tears. Learned to hide the broken glasses, stuff empty bottles into bin bags, and sneak them to the rubbish bins when no one was looking. Emily mopped floors when her mother couldn’t stand. Washed, cleaned, cooked—because otherwise, life was unbearable. By ten, she knew how to scrub wine stains from carpets and wipe sick off the walls.
Every night was a trial. Zoey would talk to herself, scream, sob, smash a glass against the wall, collapse. And Emily would sit in the dark, clutching a pillow, holding her breath. Waiting. Praying not to be noticed. Because a drunk mother was unpredictable. Sometimes she’d weep. Sometimes she’d shout. Sometimes—she’d hit.
Emily grew up. Left the second she could. Got into university, worked evenings to rent a room. Then she met Tom. Quiet, steady. They married. Had a son, Leo. And Emily swore:
—My child will never see me drunk. Never flinch at footsteps in the hall. Never scrub floors because of me.
She gave him everything she’d lacked: silence, warmth, fresh-baked bread, bedtime stories, clean sheets scented with lavender.
She barely spoke to Zoey now. Brief, guarded conversations, only during her mother’s rare sober spells. She wouldn’t let her into her life. Not an inch.
But Zoey—didn’t understand.
Her mornings began with headaches and curses. She’d grumble, stumble through the flat. Sometimes she’d wake on the kitchen floor among cigarette butts, ashtrays, and plates crusted with stale grease. Sometimes—on the sofa, no memory of how she got there.
Sometimes—in tears, furious:
—Ungrateful bitch! I carried her, rocked her to sleep, and she bolts like a rat. Not a call, not a word. My own flesh and blood… My daughter.
Sometimes she’d hurl a glass at the wall and scream:
—Selfish little cow! Thinks she can erase me like a bloody typo! I’ll die alone, and she won’t care!
Sometimes—she’d cry. 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 Zoey tried to remember where it went wrong. Was it after her husband died? After she lost her job? Or earlier—when she decided a nightly glass “to unwind” was harmless?
Now she lived alone. No family. No grandson. Just the bottle and dusty photo albums.
She’d flip through them, the pages thick with years of neglect. Stare at Emily—tiny, trusting, hair in a ribbon. Then at herself. Younger. Before everything spiralled.
And for a second, something like fear flickered in her eyes.
—What have I done?
But mostly—rage won.
—She’s MY daughter. Why doesn’t she care?! Why am I rotting here while she lives like I never existed?!
Then she’d grab the phone, ready to dial some authority, to demand:
—Make her respect me! There must be laws! I’m still her mother!
But she’d drop it. Drag herself up. Stagger to the cupboard—where the half-drunk bottle waited. Because forgetting was easier than facing the truth.
Emily knew her mother was alone. Knew she was drinking. Knew she might die in that empty flat, unmourned, unfound. But her heart had burned out long ago. Only ashes remained. A lifetime of pain had taught her one thing: save yourself first. And if someone drags you under—let go. Even if it’s your mother.
Because respect isn’t something you can demand. Sometimes you earn it. Or keep it. But once it’s gone—you can’t get it back. No matter how much you beg.
And there’s no one left to complain to.
No one. Nothing.
Because you destroyed it all. Your own hands. Your own bottles. Your silence when you should have said: I’m sorry.
