“Who can I complain to when my daughter hates me?”
— I should complain about my daughter somewhere, muttered Zoe, sprawled on the sunken sofa, her face buried in her hand. Someone should tell her to respect her mother. Anyone. Just someone…
The room was dim, the air thick with the stench of stale wine, dirty plates, and neglect. Zoe couldn’t move—her head throbbed as if a train were stuck inside her skull, each jolt bringing fresh waves of nausea. Where had she passed out? When? She couldn’t remember. Just like she couldn’t recall when the bottle had appeared last night or where the hours had gone.
She was alone again.
Grace hated drunks.
It wasn’t just dislike. It was hatred, deep and old as the roots of an ancient tree, woven into her very bones. From childhood, from those endless nights when their flat turned into something like hell: her mother stumbling through the door, slamming it shut, missing the light switch, clinging to the walls. Sometimes she fell. Sometimes she collapsed right there, never making it to bed.
Once, Grace found Zoe facedown in the mud outside their building. She was seven. Seven years old, and she already knew shame. Knew the stench of booze, the stares of neighbors, the taunts of classmates:
— Grace, is your mum sleeping in the gutter or under the table today?
She learned to hold back tears. Learned to hide the broken dishes, gather empty bottles into sacks, and sneak them to the bins when no one was looking. Grace mopped floors when her mother couldn’t stand. Washed, cleaned, cooked—because otherwise, life was unbearable. By ten, she knew how to scrub wine stains from the carpet and wipe sick off the walls.
Every evening was torture. Zoe talked to herself, screamed, sobbed, smashed jars against the wall, collapsed. And Grace sat in the dark, clutching a pillow, holding her breath. Waiting. Trying not to provoke, not to anger, not to be noticed. Because drunk Zoe could be anything—weeping one moment, raging the next, or lashing out with her fists.
Grace grew up. Left the first chance she got. Went to uni, worked nights to afford a tiny room. Then she met Thomas. Quiet, steady. They married. Had a son—Oliver. And Grace made herself a vow:
— My child will never see me drunk. Never flinch at footsteps in the hall. Never scrub vomit off the floor.
She protected him fiercely. Soft silence, warm bread, bedtime stories, clean sheets that smelled of lavender. Everything she’d never had.
She barely spoke to her mother. Only short, careful calls during Zoe’s rare sober stretches. She wouldn’t let her in. Not an inch.
But Zoe didn’t understand.
Every morning began with a pounding head and curses. She grumbled, tripped over her own flat, woke up on the kitchen floor among fag ends, ashtrays, and plates of congealed grease. Or on the sofa, with no memory of how she got there.
Sometimes she cried, bitter and self-pitying:
— Ungrateful wretch! I gave birth to her, lost sleep over her, and she bolts like a rat. Not a call, not a word. My own flesh and blood…
Sometimes she hurled a glass at the wall and screamed:
— Selfish brat! Thinks she can cut me out like a mistake! I’ll die alone, and she won’t even know!
Sometimes—just wept. Quietly. Because deep down, she knew. Knew she’d ruined it all herself. That every “just one more” had chipped away at her daughter’s love. That she’d traded warmth for litres. And now it was too late.
Sometimes Zoe tried to pinpoint where it went wrong. After her husband died? After losing her job? Or earlier—when she decided an evening tipple “to unwind” was harmless?
Now she lived alone. No family. No grandson. Just a bottle and dusty old photos.
She’d flip through the album, layers of years settled on its pages. Stare at Grace—tiny, trusting, hair in a ribbon. Then at herself. Younger. Before everything spiraled down.
And for a second, fear flickered in her eyes.
— What have I done?
But usually, anger won.
— She’s MY daughter. Why doesn’t she care? Why am I alone while she lives like nothing’s wrong?
Then Zoe would snatch up the phone, ready to call some authority, to demand:
— Make her respect me! There must be a law! I’m still her mother!
But… she’d drop it. Drag herself up. Stagger to the sideboard where the half-finished bottle waited. Because oblivion was easier than the truth.
Grace knew her mother was alone. Knew she drank. Knew she might die in that empty flat, unnoticed for days. But her heart had burned out long ago. Only ashes remained. That lifelong pain taught her one thing: save yourself first. If someone drags you under, let go. Even if it’s your mother.
Because respect isn’t something you demand. Sometimes you earn it. Or you don’t lose it. But once it’s gone? You can’t claw it back. Not even if you beg.
And there’s no one left to complain to.
No one and nothing.
Because you wrecked it all yourself. With your hands. Your bottles. Your silence when you should’ve said: I’m sorry.
