EVELYN
"Mom!" I call out—again. It must be the tenth time tonight. But there's no answer. Just silence. And in that silence, I know what's waiting for me.She's drunk. Like always.
I make my way downstairs, heart heavy, already bracing myself. In the kitchen, I find her pacing, frantic, searching for something—what, I don't know. Her face once had a softness to it, something warm. Now it's pale, worn thin by too many nights like this. Her eyes look hollow, tired. There's a part of me that aches seeing her like this, and another part that wants to run far, far away.
I catch my reflection in the window. I look more like her than I do Dad. And I hate that.
Suddenly, she finds whatever it was she was looking for—or maybe it doesn't matter. Her eyes flash red, and then it happens.
A glass dish flies past me, shattering against the wall. I don't even flinch.Then another. And another.
Shards of glass scatter across the floor, like pieces of a life that used to be whole. I look at her. There are tears slipping down her cheeks now. One after another, falling silently. I lose count.
Later—maybe thirty minutes, maybe more—I tuck her into bed. She's finally still, asleep. I tiptoe back down and begin to clean up the mess. It's routine now.
I understand why my dad left.I just wish he had taken me with him.
I'm tired.Tired of being the one who keeps things together.Tired of giving up my childhood.Tired of being the mom.
Just as I finish sweeping up the last of the glass, the phone rings. I glance at the clock. 9 PM—right on time.I pick it up. "Hey, Dad."
"Hi, baby. How are you? How are things? How… is she treating you?"
"It's fine, Dad. How was your day?" I try to sound normal, casual. But my voice shakes, just a little.
He notices. He always does."Oh, Evelyn… is it happening again?"
"No, you don't need to worry, really—"
"It's my job to worry." His voice is steady, calm, full of the love I miss. "Just two more months, Ev. I'm doing everything I can to get you out. We'll start fresh. I promise. Stay strong, sweetheart."
My throat tightens. I want to believe him. I do.
Then I hear her stir upstairs.
"I—I'm sorry, Dad. I have to go."
I hang up quickly and stare at her bedroom door.
And then the anger comes.
Not loud. Not explosive. Just that quiet burn that sits in your chest when life feels unfair.
It isn't fair.That we have to live like this.That Dad works himself to the bone while she falls apart.That people in town look at me and see her.
Some kids say they could never choose between their parents.But me?I'd choose my dad in a heartbeat.
And that hurts, too.