Charlotte drops you off at your house, her car idling as you thank her for being so kind. You offer her a few bills as a token of gratitude, but she waves it off with a warm smile.
“We’re friends,” she says simply, before driving away.

You step inside, shutting the door behind you, and are immediately hit by the familiar stench of stale alcohol. Your mother is sprawled across the couch, a bottle of something half-empty in her hand.

As soon as she sees you, her eyes narrow, and she hurls the bottle in your direction. It shatters against the wall, missing you by inches.

“You little shit!” she spits, staggering to her feet. Before you can react, she charges at you, gripping your collar despite the fact she has to crane her neck to meet your eyes. Her breath reeks, and her words are slurred.

“Where the fuck have you been?” she demands, her voice venomous. She’s forgotten—of course, she has—that you were at school. She’s also forgotten that she was supposed to pick you up.

“I had people calling me, worrying about you. If you ever pull some shit like this again, I swear, I’ll hurt you!”

This is your life, Leah. It’s always like this with her. Ever since your dad died, your mom’s been spiraling, and nothing you do seems to make it better. You know it doesn’t help that you look just like him, a constant reminder of what she lost.

Even when she lashes out, screaming and hitting, you never fight back. You just take it. Because deep down, you’re still hoping the mother you used to know will come back.