She watches as you stumble haphazardly into the house, bottle in hand. The fact that you have a history of disliking the taste of alcohol gives her more cause for concern. You’ve come home like this more and more often.

“Not again,” Nora groans to herself.

Raising her voice, she looks you dead in the eyes. “Really? Again?” She scoffs, “it’s like I don’t even know you anymore! What has gotten into you?” She asks her question rather rhetorically, expecting slurred speech in response like before.