**”Who Can I Complain To If My Own Daughter Hates Me?”**
“I need to report my daughter somewhere,” muttered Zoe, sprawled on the sunken sofa, her face buried in her hands. “Someone should tell her she ought to respect her mother. Anyone. Just one bloody person…”
The room was steeped in dim twilight, the air thick with the stench of stale wine, unwashed dishes, and neglect. Zoe couldn’t move—her head pounded as if a train had derailed inside her skull, each lurch sending waves of nausea through her. Where had she passed out? When? She couldn’t remember. Just like she couldn’t recall when the bottle had appeared last night, or where the hours had vanished.
Again, she was alone.
Grace hated drunks.
Not just disliked. Loathed—deeply, fiercely, like a festering root wound through her soul. Since childhood, since those endless evenings when their flat turned into something akin to hell: her mother stumbling through the door, slamming it shut, fumbling for the light switch, clinging to the walls. Sometimes falling. Sometimes collapsing right there, never making it to bed.
Once, when Grace was seven, she found Zoe facedown in the mud outside their building. Seven years old, and already she knew shame—the stench of alcohol, the neighbours’ whispers, the snickers from classmates:
“Grace, is your mum passed out in a gutter or under a table today?”
She learned to choke back tears. Learned to hide the shattered dishes, stuff empty bottles into a sack, and sneak them to the bin when no one was looking. Grace scrubbed 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 the rug and wipe vomit off the walls.
Every night was torture. Zoe would shout at phantoms, weep, smash a jar against the wall, collapse. And Grace would sit frozen in the dark, clutching a pillow, barely breathing. Waiting. Praying not to be noticed. Because drunk Zoe was unpredictable—sometimes sobbing, sometimes screaming, sometimes swinging her fists.
Grace grew up. Left the moment she could. Got into university, worked evenings to rent a flat. Then she met James—steady, quiet. They married. Had a son, Oliver. And Grace swore a vow:
“My child will never see me drunk. Never flinch at footsteps in the hall. Never scrub a floor because of me.”
She shielded him fiercely—soft blankets, bedtime stories, the scent of lavender on fresh sheets. Everything she’d never had.
With Zoe, she spoke little—brief, clipped conversations, only during her mother’s rare sober stretches. She refused to let her in. Not an inch.
But Zoe never understood.
Her mornings started with throbbing temples and curses. She’d groan, trip over clutter, sometimes wake on the kitchen tiles among cigarette butts and a plate of congealed grease. Sometimes on the sofa, with no memory of how she got there.
Sometimes, weeping with self-pity:
“Ungrateful brat! I gave birth to her, sacrificed everything, and she bolts like a stray dog. Not a call, not a letter. My own flesh and blood…”
Sometimes, in a rage, she’d hurl a glass against the wall and shriek:
“Selfish cow! Thinks she can erase me like a bloody typo! I’ll die alone, and she won’t even care!”
Sometimes—just wept. Quiet. Bitter. Because deep down, she knew. Knew she’d traded every “just one more” for her daughter’s love. Known she’d swapped warmth for litres of numbness. And knew it was too late.
Sometimes Zoe tried to pinpoint where it all went wrong. After her husband’s death? After losing her job? Or earlier—when she decided an evening glass “to unwind” was harmless?
Now she lived alone. No family. No grandson. Just a bottle and dusty photo albums.
She’d flip through the pages, the grime of years coating them, stare at Grace—tiny, earnest, hair in a ribbon—then at her younger self, before the spiral. 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 lives free?!”
Then Zoe would snatch the phone, ready to dial some authority, to demand:
“Make her respect me! There must be a law! I’m her mother!”
But she’d drop it. Drag herself to the cupboard. Reach for the half-finished bottle. Because oblivion was easier than the truth.
Grace knew Zoe was alone. Knew she drank. Knew she might one day die in that empty flat, unfound, unmourned. But her heart was ash now. A lifetime of pain had taught her one rule—save yourself first. If someone drags you under, let go. Even if it’s your own mother.
Because respect isn’t owed—it’s earned. Or kept. And when lost, it can’t be clawed back. Not even when you beg.
No one left to complain to.
No one left to care.
Because she’d wrecked it all herself. Bottle by bottle. Silence when she should’ve said: I’m sorry.
