“You ungrateful girl! We raised you, fed you, and now you abandon your dying father!”
“Mum, enough! I wont send another penny while you drink it all away. I wont fund your binges!” Emily fought to keep her voice steady, though tears glistened in her eyes.
“Then dont bother calling again. I wont speak to youand neither will your father!” Her mother slammed down the phone.
Emily sank into a chair, dropped her mobile on the table, and pressed her hands to her face. From the next room, her little son whimpered. She stifled a sob. She had to stay strongfor him.
But how could she, when the past gnawed at her like a hungry ghost?
…Memories flashed before her. The sour stench of booze and cigarettes. A room with peeling wallpaper and dents in the doorher hideout when her drunken parents screamed and smashed plates. Back then, she didnt understand, only feared that one morning, one of them wouldnt wake up.
Her only toys were empty tins, carrier bags, and bottle caps. Shed play house, dreaming of a better lifeof kind, loving parents. Or of being a proper mum herself.
Her mother was worse. Even sober, she was sharp-tongued, quick to slap if Emily dropped something or scold if she made a mess. Now, Emily knew it wasnt her faulther mother had just taken her anger out on her. But back then, shed believed she deserved the misery.
Her father had his moments. Hed ask, “Liz, have you fed the girl?” when he got home from work.
“Shes old enough to find her own food!” her mother would snap.
“Liz, shes seven! She cant cook yet. Make her something,” hed insist.
Her mother would grumble but boil pasta, sometimes with sausages. More often, Emily fended for herselfbread, leftover carrots, cold porridge.
Fear and worry were her constant companions. Shed fall asleep to the clink of bottles, wake to shouts, praying it would end.
School was her escape. The moment she could, she fled to college in another city. The hostel felt like freedomthough guilt still choked her at night. Shed think, *Theyll fall apart without me. I shouldve stayed.* But she pushed the thoughts away.
Calls with her mother stopped at once. Her fathers dwindled over time.
“Hi, love. How are you?” hed ask when he rang.
A dozen replies swirled in her head*Im better without you. Im exhausted from side jobs. Ive friends who dont make me ashamed.* But shed only say, “Fine. How are you?”
She knew nothing had changed. Perhaps she hoped it hadntbecause change there could only mean worse.
“Fine,” hed say, then lapse into silence before awkwardly hanging up. Eventually, they stopped calling altogether.
Her parents life became her secret cross, a pain she hid even from her husband.
“My parents wont be at the wedding,” she told Thomas calmly, though her stomach knotted. “They live too farin the countryside. They cant make it.”
“What? Well pay for their tickets. Its your weddingparents want to be there.”
*All parents. But not mine.* She bit her lip to stop the tears.
“It wont work. Mums heart cant handle travel. I knew what I was doing when I moved… and so did they. Ill send photos. Its fine.”
Thomas shrugged and let it go.
She couldnt risk the shame. She still remembered her tenth birthday, when shed dared invite classmates over. Her parents had rowed at the tablethen her mother snarled at a friend, “Shut up! Youre eating my food in my house!”
The girl locked herself in the loo, crying. Emily burned with humiliation.
After that, she never invited anyone again.
She couldnt risk a repeat at her weddingso she didnt even tell her parents. She focused on the present: her kind husband, her son Oliver, a home free from shouting.
But the past came knocking.
“Emily, your dads not well,” a neighbour called to say. “Hes in hospital.”
Her heart lurched. Shed always known this day would comebut nothing could prepare her.
“Whats wrong?”
“Hes ill. Skin and bones. Yellow as a lemonliver, maybe. But you know how they live. Could be anything… Will you come?”
The unspoken *one last time* hung in the air.
“Ill try,” she promised.
That night, she told Thomas everythingher childhood, her parents drinking, how her father had tried in his way.
“Thats what you call trying?” Thomas scowled. “Leaving you with a drunk, fighting for years, driving you to run away”
The pain in her eyes silenced him. She still loved themlike a dog that licks the hand that kicks it. He sighed.
“Look, going theres out. I cant manage Oliver alone, and I wont let you take him…”
“I get it. But can we at least send money for medicine?”
“Emily, you know where thatll go.”
“Please…”
“Fine. If you want to skip buying Ollie toys for thisyour call.”
She sent more than Thomas allowed, lying about salon trips to funnel cash to her parents.
Her father recoveredor so he claimed. Relief was short-lived. Two months later, the neighbour called again.
“Emily, I get it, but theyre still your parents!”
“I cant nurse them from here…”
“But you could help! Its awful, watching him waste away, alone!”
Emily froze. “Alone? I send money”
Turns out, every penny went on drink. Her mother wailed that Emily had abandoned them; her father moaned that his wife stole his medicine money.
When Emily confronted her mother, she got the ultimatum: *Dont call again.*
She lay awake till dawnremembering, doubting, then searching for rehab centres. Maybe this was the answer. Expensive, but Thomas would understand.
Next day, she called her father, hopeful.
“Dad, I found a clinic near youspecialists who can help with… well, drinking. Well cover it.”
“No clinics!” he snapped. “Ill quit when I want. I dont need your pity!”
Then she understood: he didnt *want* help.
“But the doctors could”
“No. Drop it.”
“…Alright. I just wanted to help.”
After they hung up, her throat achedbut her heart felt lighter. Shed done all she could. More would ruin her own family.
She stood over Olivers cot, watching him sleep. Her decision was firm: no more calls. Shed focus on those who deserved ither husband, her son. The rest was in Gods hands.
