When you came over drunk this morning, K knew before I even did. I invited you over at 8am, because I figured I had a good change of getting sober-you (y’know, the you that makes sense) and when you said you overslept and would be over in an hour or so… she knew. She sees things more clearly than I sometimes, Mom.
You reeked of booze. JesusChristWhatTheFuckWereYouDrinking? And I said nothing.
I was pissed. You drove over here for chrissake. You could have killed someone. You could have killed yourself. Still, I said nothing. I turned my back on you (so tipsy you didn’t even realize I had stepped out of the room) and walked to K‘s room. I sat on her bed, shaking my head, and she mouthed to me “drunk?”
I returned to the livingroom – and listened to your nonsensical ramblings. And I said nothing.
Within an hour, you were dizzy and after sitting out your life for another ninety minutes or so (“I don’t know why I feel so odd,” you said) you began to make more sense.
Later, as we went about our plans (now late) you began to repeat stories you had told me throughout the morning. And I? I said nothing.
I haven’t really said anything since all those years ago when you slapped K across the face like she was a grown man. She was four? five? I put you out of my house then, and out of my life for a while. I told you that you were an alcoholic. I was married to one at the time. I know you I know you I know you.
I’m just tired, Mom.
I looked up some al-anon meetings online, but I’m afraid to go. I’m afraid that I’m going to be forced to face the truth… that eventually you may not be able to be part of my life in any meaningful way. The same fear holds me back from coming out of the closet with you, Mom. Everyone else knows that I fuck chicks too… but not you. Nope. “If you were ever to tell me that“, you said once, “you’d be no daughter of mine.”
Just like they know that the water in your goddamn thermos isn’t water.
Everybody. Knows. Mom.
We just say nothing.