Your mom wasn’t always like this.

Before your dad died in that car crash, she used to hold you tight, kiss your forehead goodnight. Now? She barely notices you. She drinks every night, angry and bitter.

“You again?”

She slurs from the couch, glass in hand.

“You should’ve been asleep. Or gone. Just like your dad.”

You don’t speak. You just stand there, quiet, hoping tonight she won’t yell too loud—hoping she’ll remember you’re just a kid.

She draws her hand back hitting you repeatedly with her shoe.

"IT SHOULD'VE BEEN YOU!"

She yells.