“You Ungrateful Wretch!”
“Ungrateful, thats what you are! 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 forced her voice steady, though tears pricked her eyes.
“Fine thendont call us again. I wont speak to you, and Ill make sure your father doesnt either!” Her mother slammed the phone down.
Emily sank into a chair, set her mobile on the table, and pressed her hands to her face. From the next room, her toddler whimpered. She swallowed a sob. She had to stay strongfor him.
But how could she, when memories gnawed at her soul?
…Images flickered in her mind. The stench of booze and cigarettes. Peeling wallpaper, dents in the doorsher hiding place when her drunken parents hurled curses and smashed plates. As a child, she hadnt understood, only feared. Every night, she wondered if one of them wouldnt wake up.
Her only toys were empty tins, plastic bags, and bottle caps. She’d play “family,” dreaming of a life where parents smiled, where love wasnt drowned in liquor. Or where shed be the mother shed never had.
Her mum was worse. Even sober, she was sharp-tongued, lashing out at the smallest thing. A dropped plate earned a slap; spilled sugar meant the belt.
Now Emily knew it wasnt her faulther mother had just taken her rage out on her. But back then, shed believed she deserved the nightmare.
Her father had his moments. Between bottles, hed sometimes remember her.
“Sarah, have you even fed the girl?” hed grunt, coming home from work.
“Shes old enough to fend for herself,” her mother would snap.
“Sarah, shes seven! Not old enough to cook. Make her something.”
With a mutter, her mother would slop together pasta or bangers. More often, Emily scavengedbread, a forgotten carrot in the fridge, cold leftovers.
Fear was her shadow. She fell asleep to the clink of bottles, woke to shouting. And prayed for it to stop.
School was her escape. At sixteen, she fled to a college in another town. The dorm felt like freedomthough guilt still choked her at night. Were they lost without her? Should she have stayed?
Her mother never called. Emily didnt either. With her father, the calls just… faded.
“Hi, love. Hows things?” hed ask when he rang.
Her mind screamed: *Im happier without you. Im exhausted from extra shifts. I finally have friends who dont make me ashamed.* But shed only say, “Fine. And you?”
She knew the answer: the same. Or worse.
“Yeah, alright,” hed mumble before trailing off, neither knowing what else to say. Eventually, neither bothered calling.
Her parents life became her cross, her secret. She never spoke of it. Not even to James.
“My parents wont be at the wedding,” she told him, forcing calm though her stomach twisted. “They live too farcountry folk. Cant make the trip.”
“What? Well cover their tickets. Its your weddingparents *want* to be there.”
*Not mine*, she thought, biting her lip to stop the tears.
“Mums got a weak heartlong trips are hard. Look, I knew what I was doing when I moved. So did they. Ill send photos. Its fine.”
James shrugged, dropping it.
She remembered her tenth birthdaythe one time shed dared invite friends over. Her parents had rowed at the table. Then her mother had snarled at her best mate:
“Shut it! Youre eating *my* food in *my* house!”
The girl locked herself in the loo, crying. Emily burned with shame.
After that, she never invited anyone again.
She wouldnt risk a repeat at her wedding. She didnt even tell them about it. The past was dead. Now she had a real familyone without shouting. And a son, Oliver.
Then the past came knocking.
“Emily, your dads not well,” a neighbour called to say. “Theyve taken him to hospital.”
Her heart lurched. Shed always known this day would come.
“What happened?”
“Hes ill. Skin and bones. Yellow, too. Liver, likelybut with their way of living… Might be your last chance to see him.”
“Ill try,” she whispered.
That night, she told James everythingthe drinking, the fights, the rare moments her father had cared.
“Thats *care*?” James scoffed. “Leaving you with a drunk, shouting for years till you *ran*?”
The pain in her eyes silenced him. She still loved themlike a kicked pup that still wags its tail. He sighed.
“Look, you cant go with Oliver, and I cant miss work… But well send money for meds.”
“James, men like him drink it away.”
“Please…”
“Your choice. But its coming from Olivers treats.”
She sent more than he allowedlying, saying it was for haircuts.
Her father recoveredor so he claimed. Relief was short-lived. Two months later, the neighbour rang again.
“Emily, theyre still your parents,” she huffed.
“I *cant* drop everything”
“But you couldve *helped*! Its awful, watching him waste away!”
Emily froze. “What? I *sent* money”
Turned out, every penny had gone on booze. Her mother wailed that Emily had abandoned them; her father claimed she kept the cash from his medicine.
When Emily confronted her mother, she got the same ultimatum: *Dont call again.*
Manipulationbut behind it was her father, possibly dying.
She barely slept that night, torn between guilt and resolve. By dawn, shed found rehab centres. Expensive, but maybe James would agree…
Next day, she called her father, hopeful.
“Dad, theres a clinic near youspecialists who can help. Well pay.”
“Dont need it,” he snapped. “Ill quit when I want. Keep your pity.”
Then she understood: he *didnt* want help.
“But the doctorsyour liver”
“No clinics. Im *fine*.”
Her voice cracked. “If youre fine… then Im glad. I just wanted to help.”
After hanging up, grief clogged her throatbut her heart felt lighter. Shed done all she could. More would break *her* family.
She crept to Olivers cot, watching him sleep. Her decision was firm: no more calls. Her duty was to those who deserved itJames, her son. The rest was in Gods hands.
