“You ungrateful girl! We raised you, fed you, and now you abandon your dying father!”
“Mum, enough! I wont send another penny while you waste it all on drink. I wont fund your binges!” Emily tried to sound firm, though tears glistened in her eyes.
“Fine then. Dont call us again. I dont want to speak to youand Ill tell your father the same!” Her mother slammed the phone down.
Emily sank into a chair, set her mobile on the table, and buried her face in her hands. From the next room, her little son whimpered. She swallowed a sob. She had to stay strongfor him.
But how could she, when memories gnawed at her?
Images flashed in her mind. The sour reek of alcohol and cigarettes. Peeling wallpaper and dents in the doorsher hiding place when her drunken parents screamed and smashed plates. Back then, she didnt understand, only feared one of them might not wake up.
Her only toys were empty tins, carrier bags, and bottle caps, arranged into make-believe families. She dreamed of happy parentsor, one day, being a proper mother herself.
Her mum was worse. Even sober, she snapped at Emily for the smallest thinga dropped plate earned a slap, spilled sugar a belt. Now, Emily knew it wasnt her fault; her mother just took out her rage on her. But as a child, shed believed she deserved the nightmare.
Her dad had rare moments of clarity. Hed check on her before reaching for the bottle.
“Liz, have you fed the girl?” hed ask, coming home from work.
“Shes old enough to fend for herself!” her mum would scoff.
“Liz, shes seven! She shouldnt be cooking yet. Make her something,” hed insist.
Her mum would grumble but boil pastasometimes with sausages. Mostly, Emily scavenged: bread, a forgotten carrot in the fridge, cold rice.
Fear and dread were constant companions. She fell asleep to clinking bottles, woke to shouting, and prayed for it to end.
School was her escape. At sixteen, she fled to a college in another city. Breathing deep in her dorm room, she finally felt freethough guilt still choked her at night. Surely her parents would fall apart without her? But she pushed the thought away.
Contact with her mum stopped immediately. Her dads calls dwindled.
“Hi, love. Hows things?” hed ask.
Her mind raced: *Im happier without you. Im exhausted from extra shifts. Ive friends who dont shame me.* But she only said, “Fine. And you?”
She knew nothing had changedand hoped it hadnt. Change there could only be for the worse.
“Yeah, fine,” hed reply, then lapse into silence before awkwardly hanging up. Eventually, the calls stopped altogether.
Her parents lives became her secret shame, shared with no onenot even her husband.
“My parents wont be at the wedding,” she told Philip calmly, though her heart sank. “They live too farin the countryside. They cant come.”
“How? Well pay their train fare. Parents want to see their child married!”
*Not mine,* she thought, biting her lip to stop the tears.
“It wont work. Mums heart cant take long journeys. I knew what I was doing when I moved. Ill send photos. Its fine.”
Philip shrugged and dropped it.
She remembered her tenth birthday, when classmates visited. Her parents had rowed at the tablethen her mum screamed at a friend: “Shut up! Youre eating *my* food in *my* house!” The girl locked herself in the loo, crying. Emily burned with shame.
No more guests after that.
She wouldnt risk a repeat at her weddingdidnt even tell them. She focused on her new family, where no one shouted. And on her son, Oliver.
But the past returned.
“Emily, your dads really poorly,” a neighbour called. “Hes in hospital.”
Her heart lurched. Shed known this day would come.
“What happened?”
“Hes ill. Wasted away. Yellow skinliver, probably. But with their lifestyle… Maybe come?”
The unspoken *one last time* hung in the air.
“Ill try,” Emily promised.
That night, she told Philip everythingher childhood, the drinking, how her dad had tried.
“Thats *care*?” Philip scowled. “Leaving you with her? Arguing for years till you ran?”
The pain in her eyes silenced him. She loved them anywaylike a kicked puppy still loyal.
“Ollie cant travel, and I cant stay alone with him,” he said gently. “But send money for medicine, if you want.”
“People like that drink it away,” he warned when she insisted.
She sent more than he allowedlying about haircuts.
Her dad recoveredor claimed to. Relief was short-lived. Two months later, the neighbour called again.
“Theyre your parents! Hes wasting away, and you do nothing!”
Emily froze. “Nothing? I send money!”
Turned out, it went on booze. Her mum whined that Emily had abandoned them; her dad claimed she stole his medicine money.
A confrontation led to *Dont call again*. Blackmail. Her head knew it was manipulationbut her dad might truly be dying.
She barely slept, searching rehab centres. Expensive, but Philip might agree.
Next day, she called her dad, hoping for light at the tunnels end.
“Dad, theres a clinic near youspecial help for drinkers. Well pay.”
“No clinics!” he snapped. “Ill quit if I want. I dont need your pity!”
Then she understood: he didnt *want* help.
“Dad, the doctors could”
“No. Drop it.”
“If youre fine, then… I just wanted to help.” Her voice broke.
After, a weight lifted. Shed done her best. More would wreck her own family.
By Olivers cot, she resolved: no more calls. Shed focus on those who deserved ither husband and son. The rest was in Gods hands.
