Wheat Golden Love

Chapter 8

"Why do I need a reason to come home, mom? You act like I can't just come home because I miss you guys. Plus, you know how long it's been since I had a home cooked meal? Ages. That in itself is devastating." I let out, feeling exasperated, washing the dishes.

"I'm glad you enjoyed dinner, but if I didn't know you any better I wouldn't even question you. But I do know you, and you wouldn't be home if something wasn't worse off at school than it is here." She has stopped rinsing dishes and is looking at me while leaning on the counter.

Still washing dishes not wanting to look at her I reply. "Mom, there's really nothing going on. I just wanted to come home and rest up before finals start."

After a moment of silence, "Are you still partying?" She asks, getting down to what she really wants to know.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, "Seriously? It's always about that, isn't it? I'm in college. I'm allowed to have fun. Lord knows you have had your fair share."

"That's not fair! You know what I was going through." She huffs out defensively.

"Yes. I do know, but you act like I'm suppose to keep myself in a straight line at all times. You know what I dealt with when I was home. How is that any fair to a sixteen year old? I took care of you because you couldn't take care of yourself. Can I not have a breather and let loose? Maybe I need it. Maybe I need to make some mistakes and worry only about myself. I'm tired of worrying about everyone else, Mom. Don't you get it? I was never allowed a normal, carefree life. If I wasn't looking out for you, I was making sure Aaron was alright." I finish, letting out a deep breath finally setting my eyes on her. She obviously wasn't expecting my brutal honesty. If she had been, we might not be having this conversation. She knew that it always came back on her, and I was sick of getting shamed for being a little careless after spending so much time watching out for her when she couldn't do it herself.

She doesn't say anything. She just hangs her head and picks at her nails.

"Why am I so shameful to you?" I ask, breaking the silence.

She looks up searching my face before responding, "I'm not ashamed of you. I just," she looks over at the wall pondering her next words, "I just don't want you to end up like me."

"I get it, but why would I ever do that? I've already been down that road." I speak frankly while draining the sink of soap suds and water.

"Pearl." Quietly, she addresses me very seriously. "It just sneaks up on you. One day you're just letting loose and washing your cares away, then the next, your daughter is walking you down the hall at two in the morning because you're completely shit faced and can't even stand up straight." Tears begin to prick her eyes when she turns her back to the sink to finish rinsing off the dishes.

I don't say anything. There wasn't anything to say. I understand where she is coming from. If I'm honest with myself, I can see how easily I could slip into that. My understanding doesn't make my mom's alcoholism right. It was hard. She was very undependable growing up. Having divorced parents was hard enough. Then, my dad would always talk crap about my mom. I don't know if he was still bitter after 15 years of divorce, but he hated her.

Any school function or sporting event, my dad was always present. Even when I was able to drive myself, my dad showed up. My mom, she was at home, drinking. She couldn't get out past four because that's when she gave herself permission to open her first beer of the day. It gave the illusion that she wasn't actually an alcoholic.

Granted, my mom was always the easier one to talk to. I told her everything, and she always gave sound advice. My dad was more the disciplinary figure. I kept everything from him, even the good stuff because I wasn't sure how he'd twist it to make it into something it wasn't. Typical narcissist asshole behavior. He definitely didn't know I had a tattoo on my hip. With my mom working in a salon, I was her Guinea pig. My dad hated when I had dyed my hair or cut it short. My brother wasn't allowed to have long hair. This one time he even made my him cry, at fourteen years, old because he didn't want to get his hair cut. My parents were both ridiculous; just on opposite ends of the "crazy parent" spectrum.