Loving You Differently

Four

Aria Adkins

One week after her mysterious rendezvous, I decide to take matters into my own hands and give mom a wake-up call of her own.

Bright and early on Sunday morning at 7am, I shoulder mom's bedroom door open and smirk as the sound of it slamming against the wall jolts her out of bed. She jerks awake, wide-eyed and flabbergasted, and lets out a loud curse.

I whip the empty trash bag from behind my back and drop to my knees so I can start rummaging through her room. She's quiet and confused as she watches me sift through the piles of clothes on her floor, but she tenses up when I pop my head up from the side of her bed and make a show of tossing the half-empty bottle of vodka in the trash bag.

That gets her attention.

"The fuck are you doin'?" her raspy, half-asleep southern accent snaps, "stop takin' my shit!"

I ignore her and start flinging open her dresser drawers. I scrunch my nose up in disgust as I deposit a baggy of weed and two small bottles of Crown Royal into the bag.

When I move to her closet, she throws her duvet to the side and lunges for me.

"This is my house! This is my shit!" she yells.

I snatch the trash bag from her grasp and glare at her, "You paid for none of it. You don't pay a single fucking bill in this household. Things are changing around here. Starting now."

Mom throws her hands up in frustration and grips her thin, greying hair, "I don't have to put up with this bullshit. You mind your own fucking business, you hear me?"

I shake the trash bag at her and yell, "This is my business! I clean up after you. I take care of you. I take care of all of us! I understand that you're going through a hard time right now, but this shit needs to stop. This isn't the right way to deal with it."

Tears gather in her eyes and before I know it, she's falling to her knees and burying her head in her hands. I watch on in stunned confusion as she begins sobbing uncontrollably.

"None of you give a damn about me! Your father didn't and neither do you! My husband left me. He's gone! I'm grieving his loss and you're being selfish." she wails.

Holy shit. She really went there.

I grip the trash bag in my hands, trying to get a grasp on how the hell our conversation got to this point. I'm not shocked that she pulled the victim card. In a way, I do feel sorry for her. I can't imagine how it feels having your husband leave you, but it's not like they had a healthy, loving relationship in the first place. He was always high, cheated on her all the time, and was never home.

But the self-destructive path she's heading down isn't good. She's never sober or coherent and she's always disappearing. She's turning into dad.

Mom quiets her cries when she notices that I haven't said anything. She peers up at me through snot, tears, and greasy hair matted to her forehead and wet cheeks.

I take a deep breath, exhale, and calmly say, "I clean your vomit from the carpet. I cut my palms when I pick up shattered glass off the kitchen floor. I hold Savannah as she cries and asks me why you love alcohol more than her. I'm the furthest thing from selfish, and if you can't see that, then I guess you need to put down the bottle and open your eyes a little wider."