“You Ungrateful Wretch!”
“You ungrateful girl! We raised you, fed you, and now you abandon your dying father!”
“Mum, enough! I wont send you another penny while you drink it all away. I wont fund your binges!” Emily spoke firmly, though tears pricked at 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, setting her phone on the table before burying her face in her hands. In the next room, her little son whimpered. She swallowed a sob. She had to stay strongfor him.
But how could she be strong when memories gnawed at her?
Flashes of childhood surfacedthe stench of alcohol and stale cigarettes, peeling wallpaper, dents in the bedroom door where shed lock herself away as her drunken parents screamed and smashed dishes. She hadnt understood then, only feared that one morning, one of them wouldnt wake up.
Her toys were empty tins, carrier bags, and bottle caps. Shed play family, dreaming of a day when everything would be differentwhen her parents would smile, or shed grow up to be the mother she never had.
Her mother was worse. Even sober, she was sharp-tongued, quick to slap Emily for spilling something or yank her by the hair. Now, Emily knew it wasnt her faulther mother had only taken her anger out on her. But back then, shed believed she deserved it.
Her father had moments of clarity. Hed ask, “Liz, have you fed the girl?” when he came home from work.
“Shes old enough to sort herself out,” her mother would mutter.
“Liz, shes seven! She cant cook yet. Make her something.”
Grumbling, her mother would heat plain pasta, sometimes with sausages. More often, Emily fended for herselfbread, a forgotten carrot in the fridge, cold porridge.
Fear was constant. Shed fall asleep to the clink of bottles, wake to shouting, praying it would stop.
School was her escape. At eighteen, she fled to a college in another town, breathing freely for the first time in her tiny dorm. Guilt still choked her at nightwhat if her parents couldnt cope without her? But she pushed the thoughts away.
Calls with her mother stopped immediately. With her father, they fizzled out.
“Hi, love. How are you?” hed ask when he rang.
Her mind raced: *Im better without you. Im exhausted from extra shifts. I finally have friends who dont make me ashamed.* But she only said, “Im fine. How are you?”
Hed pause. “Fine, too.”
Neither knew what else to say. Soon, the calls ended altogether.
Her parents lives became her secret shame. She never told a soulnot even her husband, James.
“My parents wont be at the wedding,” she said calmly, though her stomach twisted. “They live too farin the countryside. Cant make it.”
“What? Well pay for their tickets!” James insisted. “Parents want to see their child married.”
*Not mine.* She bit her lip. “Mum has a heart conditionlong trips are risky. Ill send photos. Its fine.”
James dropped it. She couldnt risk a scenenot after her tenth birthday, when her mother screamed at a friend, “Shut up! Youre eating *my* food in *my* house!” Humiliated, Emily never invited anyone over again.
Now, she had a real familya home without shouting, a son, William. But the past returned without warning.
“Emily, your dads not well,” a neighbour called one day. “They took him to hospital.”
Her heart lurched. Shed known this day would come.
“Whats wrong?”
“Hes ill. Lost weight, turned yellowliver, probably. But you know how they live. Might be his last chance to see you.”
“Ill try,” Emily whispered.
That night, she told James everythingthe drinking, the neglect, her fathers rare kindness.
“Thats *care*?” James frowned. “Leaving you with her? Letting it get so bad you ran?”
The pain in her eyes silenced him. She loved them anywaylike a dog still loyal after a kick.
“The trips out,” he said gently. “I cant take time off with William. But if you want to send money for medicine…”
She sent more than he allowed, lying about haircuts. Her father recoveredbriefly. Two months later, the neighbour called again, furious.
“Theyre your parents! How can you let him waste away?”
“What? Ive sent money”
“Which they drank! Your mum whines youve abandoned them, and your dad says she steals it!”
Emily confronted her motheronly to hear, *Dont call again.* Blackmail. She knew it was manipulation, but what if her father *was* dying?
That night, she lay awake, searching rehab clinics online. Maybe *this* was the answera place where her father couldnt drink the funds away.
The next day, she called him, hopeful.
“Dad, theres a clinic nearbyspecialists who can help. Well pay.”
“No clinics!” he snapped. “Ill quit when *I* want. I dont need your pity!”
And she understoodhe didnt *want* help.
“Dad, the doctorsyour liver”
“No. Drop it.”
Her voice faltered. “Alright… I just wanted to help.”
As they hung up, the lump in her throat eased. The guilt unknotted. Shed done all she could. More would only hurt her real family now.
She stood over Williams cot, watching him sleep. No more calls. Shed focus on those who deserved itJames, her son. The rest? Let it be.
