“Where can I complain if my daughter hates me?”
—I ought to report my daughter somewhere—muttered Josephine, lying on the sunken couch, her face buried in her hand—someone ought to tell her a mother deserves respect. Anyone. Just someone…
The room was steeped in grey half-light. The stench of stale wine, dirty plates, and thick air clung to the wallpaper and walls. Josephine couldn’t bring herself to rise—her head throbbed as if a train were trapped inside her skull, each jolt bringing fresh waves of nausea. Where had she fallen asleep? When? She couldn’t recall. Nor could she remember when the bottle had appeared the night before or where the last few hours had gone.
She was alone again.
Emily despised drunks.
It wasn’t mere dislike. It was hatred, deep-rooted and ancient, spreading through her like the veins of an old tree. From childhood, from those evenings when their flat turned into something resembling hell—her mother staggering in, slamming the door, fumbling for the light switch, clutching at the walls. Sometimes, she fell. Sometimes, she slept in the doorway, never making it to bed.
Once, when Emily was seven, she found Josephine face-down in the mud outside their building. Seven years old, and she already knew shame. The reek of alcohol, the neighbours’ glances, the taunts from classmates:
—Emily, is your mum in the gutter or under the table tonight?
She learned to swallow tears. Learned to hide broken dishes, to gather empty bottles into sacks and sneak them to the bins unseen. Emily mopped floors when her mother couldn’t stand. Washed clothes, cleaned, cooked—because otherwise, life was unbearable. By ten, she knew how to lift wine stains from carpets and scrub vomit off walls.
Every evening was an ordeal. Her mother talked to herself, screamed, wept, hurled a jar at the wall, collapsed. And Emily sat in the dark, clutching a pillow, holding her breath. Waiting. Hoping not to provoke, not to anger, not to be noticed. Because a drunken mother could be many things. Sometimes she wept. Sometimes she shouted. Sometimes she struck.
Emily grew up. Left as soon as she could. Went to university, worked nights to rent a room. Then she met Thomas—quiet, steady. They married. A son, Oliver, was born. And Emily swore a vow:
—My child will never see me drunk. Never dread footsteps in the hall. Never scrub a floor clean after me.
She guarded her son fiercely. Silence, warmth, fresh-baked bread, bedtime stories, lavender-scented sheets—all the things she’d never had.
With her mother, she spoke little. Brief, guarded conversations, only during Josephine’s rare sober spells. She wouldn’t let her into her life. Not an inch.
But Josephine—didn’t understand.
Her mornings began with headaches and curses. She muttered, stumbled through the flat. Sometimes she woke on the kitchen tiles among cigarette butts, ashtrays, and plates caked with grease. Sometimes on the couch, with no memory of how she’d got there.
Sometimes in tears, wallowing in self-pity:
—Ungrateful wretch! I brought her into this world, lost sleep over her, and she bolts like a rat. Not a call, not a letter. And she’s my own blood… My daughter.
Sometimes, in a rage, she hurled a glass at the wall and shrieked:
—Selfish brat! Thinks she can blot me out like a mistake! I’ll die alone, and she won’t even know!
Sometimes—she wept. Quietly. Bitterly. Because she knew. Knew she’d destroyed it all herself. That every “just one more” had bartered away her daughter’s love. That she’d traded warmth for litres. And it was too late now.
Sometimes, Josephine tried to remember where it had gone wrong. What crossroads she’d strayed at. After her husband’s death? After losing her job? Or earlier—when she’d decided an evening glass “to unwind” was harmless?
Now she lived alone. No family. No grandson. Just bottles and yellowed photos.
She opened the album, its dust thick as layers of years. Stared at Emily—small, ribbon in her hair, eyes trusting. Then at herself. Younger. Before everything had slipped through her fingers.
And in her eyes flickered something like fear.
—What have I done?
But more often—rage rose instead.
—She’s MY daughter. Why doesn’t she care?! Why am I rotting here while she lives unscathed?!
Then Josephine would snatch up the phone, ready to dial some authority and demand:
—Make her respect me! There must be laws! I’m still her mother!
But then… she’d hang up. Drag herself up. Stagger to the cabinet where an unfinished bottle waited. Because forgetting was easier than facing the truth.
Emily knew her mother was alone. Knew she drank. Knew she might die in that empty flat, undiscovered for days. But her heart had long burned out. Only ashes remained. A lifetime of pain had taught her one lesson—save yourself first. And if someone drags you under—let go. Even if it’s your mother.
Because respect isn’t always something you can demand. Sometimes, you must earn it. Or not lose it. But once lost—it can’t be reclaimed. No matter how much you wish it.
And there’s no one left to complain to.
No one and nothing.
Because you wrecked it all yourself. With your own hands. Your own bottles. Your silence when you should’ve said: I’m sorry.
