**Diary Entry**
*Where can I complain when my own daughter hates me?*
“I need to report my daughter to someone,” muttered Dorothy, sprawled on the sunken sofa, her face buried in her hands. “Someone ought to tell her she ought to respect her mother. Anyone. Just someone.”
The room was dim, the air thick with the stench of stale wine, unwashed plates, and cigarette smoke clinging to the wallpaper. Dorothy couldn’t move—her head pounded as if a train had derailed inside her skull, each jolt bringing fresh 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 vanished.
Once again, she was alone.
Emily hated drunks.
Not just disliked them—*hated* them. A deep, old hatred, twisted into her bones like roots of an ancient tree. It had started in childhood, on those evenings when their flat turned into something hellish: her mother stumbling through the door, slamming it behind her, missing the light switch, clinging to the walls. Sometimes she’d collapse. Sometimes she’d pass out right there in the hallway.
Once, at seven years old, Emily found Dorothy face-down in the gutter outside their block of flats. Seven—and she already knew shame. Knew the reek of alcohol, the sideways glances from neighbours, the jeers from classmates:
“Emily, did your mum sleep in a ditch last night or under the table?”
She learned to swallow her tears. Learned to hide smashed glasses, stuff empty bottles into bin bags, and sneak them to the rubbish bins unseen. She scrubbed floors when her mother couldn’t stand. Washed clothes, cooked meals—because otherwise, life was unbearable. By ten, she knew how to get red wine out of carpet and vomit stains off walls.
Every night was a test. Her mother would argue with herself, shriek, sob, hurl a jam jar at the wall, collapse. And Emily would sit in the dark, clutching a pillow, holding her breath. Waiting. Daring not to anger her. Because a drunk mother could be anything: weeping one moment, screaming the next—or worse, hitting.
Emily grew up. Left the first chance she got. Went to university, worked evenings to afford a bedsit. Then she met Thomas. Steady, quiet. They married. Had a son, Oliver. And Emily swore to herself:
“My child will never see me drunk. Never flinch at footsteps in the hall. Never scrub my mess off the floor.”
She protected him fiercely. Quiet evenings, fresh bread, bedtime stories, clean sheets smelling of lavender—all the things she’d never had.
She barely spoke to Dorothy. Only when her mother had a rare sober spell—short, tense calls. She wouldn’t let her into her life. Not even a step.
But Dorothy didn’t understand.
Her mornings began with headaches and curses. She’d grumble, trip over empty bottles, sometimes wake on the kitchen tiles among fag ends and grease-crusted plates. Other times, she’d sob into the sofa:
“Ungrateful brat! I carried her, raised her, and she bolts like I’m nothing! Not a call, not a word. My own flesh and blood…”
Sometimes she’d hurl a glass and scream:
“Selfish cow! Thinks she can wipe her own mother away like a stain! Wait till I’m dead—she won’t even know!”
Sometimes, though, she’d cry quietly. Because deep down, she knew. Knew every “just one more” had chipped away at her daughter’s love. Knew she’d traded warmth for litres. Knew it was too late.
Sometimes Dorothy wondered where it all went wrong. After her husband died? After she lost her job? Or earlier—when she decided an evening tipple was harmless?
Now she lived alone. No family. No grandchild. Just a bottle and dusty photo albums.
She’d flip through the pages, tracing Emily’s childhood face—bright, trusting, hair in a ribbon. Then her own, younger. Before the spiral. And for a second, fear flickered in her eyes:
“What have I done?”
But mostly, anger won.
“My own daughter! Why doesn’t she care?! Why am I rotting here while she plays happy families?!”
She’d snatch up the phone, ready to dial *some* authority:
“Make her respect me! There must be a law! I’m her *mother*!”
Then she’d hang up. Drag herself to the cupboard. Reach for the half-finished bottle. Because oblivion was easier than the truth.
Emily knew her mother was alone. Knew she drank. Knew she might die in that flat, unnoticed for days. But her heart had turned to ash long ago. The pain had taught her one thing: save yourself first. If someone drags you under, let go—even if it’s your own mother.
Respect isn’t something you demand. It’s something you earn. Or lose forever. And once it’s gone, no law, no plea, no bottle can bring it back.
No one to complain to.
No one to blame.
Because you did this. Glass by glass. Silence by silence.
Should’ve said *I’m sorry* while there was still time.
