I still remember those days…
The ones that are nailed deep in my soul.
I had just entered the house, exhausted from school, when I heard the screaming.
Mother's voice.
I rushed inside.
There he was holding a bottle of his cheap beer.
My father.
He was drunk. Again. His eyes bloodshot, his face twisted in rage.
Mother crouched on the floor, clutching her stomach. He must've kicked her… as usual.
He roared,
"I said give me back my money, you whore!"
Another kick landed on her stomach.
"Dad—stop! Please, stop!" I stepped in, shaking, terrified.
He turned toward me with that look… like I'd be next.
Mother eyed me weakly, telling me to leave.
But something snapped inside me. Anger. Fear. Pain.
My eyes burned with tears seeing her like that.
I dropped my school bag on the floor.
"Dad, step away from her," I said, voice trembling.
He stepped back….
and in the next second, he was right in front of me.
The backhand came hard.
My head whipped to the side.
The force almost knocked me down, but I grabbed the table to steady myself.
I looked up at him angry, trembling, but not scared anymore.
"You want to hit us for money? Go on. I've had enough, Dad," I shouted, my voice hoarse.
Mother whispered, barely audible,
"Please… Ethan… don't. She's our daughter…"
Dad barked,
"Go to your room. Don't get in the middle of me and your mother. I'm talking to her."
Talking?
That wasn't talking. That is torture.
He roared,
"I said GO TO YOUR FUCKING ROOM, ZOEY!"
"No. I'm not going—"
Mother cut in, voice weak and shaking,
"Zoey… please. Go to your room."
I looked at her.
My cheek burning red. My hands trembling. My eyes full of tears.
I nodded slowly.
And went upstairs, slamming the door behind me.
I collapsed onto my bed, burying my face in a pillow as tears streamed down.
I tried to block out Dad's screaming… Mother's cries…
Ugh…
I cried quietly all night, soaking my pillow with the miserable chaos of our house.
At the café:
"Thank you so much, Mr. Lee," I said, shaking his hand. "I'll start working tomorrow, 3 p.m."
I looked around the café.
It was quiet. Peaceful.
Even though it stood right on the main street, there was this calmness inside… and I appreciated that more than anything.
I walked out, the little bell chiming behind me.
My mind drifted to Mother.
How would she react to me working at a café?
Probably shocked… maybe relieved… maybe annoyed.
But honestly?
It's still better than overdosing patients.
I laughed to myself.
I respect her job as a nurse, I really do, but the way she punishes herself…
For something she thought was right.
For something she can't undo now.
Sometimes, with the drugs, I don't even recognize her anymore.
Not the real her.
Not the mother I remember.
I crossed the road, hands stuffed in my hoodie pockets, and froze.
Just for a second.
Just a glimpse.
But that one glimpse was enough to rip open an old wound.
My eyes widened.
Him.
Uncle Jackson.
My dad's older brother.
I looked away quickly, my heartbeat climbing.
There's a whole story there, one I don't even want to open right now, but in short?
He tried to kick me and Mother out of the house we still live in.
Yeah. That kind of man.
And what the hell was he doing here?
He doesn't even live in this city.
He lives in L.A.
Strange.
I scoffed, eyebrows pulling together.
Why now? Why here?
"If he's far away from us, good for him," I muttered under my breath.
I pulled my hoodie back over my head, hands hiding inside the pockets, and walked toward the bus stand.
The café wasn't far from home.
Win-win, I guess…..
I opened the door of my house and froze.
Mother was lying on the couch, blood-covered tissues scattered around the coffee table.
"Mother… what happened?" I rushed to her side, my eyes flicking between her and the stained tissues.
I kneeled in front of her and touched her forehead.
Cold.
Her face pale.
"Did you overdose yourself?"
She nodded weakly, eyes still closed.
I stood up, panic tightening my chest.
"You need therapy, Mother."
Her bloodshot eyes snapped open.
She looked at me like I had said something unforgivable.
"Please…" I whispered, my vision blurring with tears.
She pushed herself up and pointed at the dinner she'd served on the dining table.
"Eat."
Just one word.
But enough to tell me she didn't want an argument.
She got up and stumbled into the kitchen, splashing water on her face in the sink.
"Stop treating me like some psycho addict, Zoey," she said sharply. Water dripping down her damp face…
I looked at her from my seat at the table.
"You do know I need you, Mother…" My voice trembled, my throat was aching from stopping myself from crying.
She looked away from me, water dripping down her cheeks like tears that weren't hers.
"I already lost…."
"Shhhh… Zoey, I know you lost your dad."
"Then why don't you care about me?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.
"I do… I really do," she said softly, finally sitting beside me.
"Just Eat."
I nodded, picking up my fork again.
"Mother… please… you do need help." I try to convince her again…
She slammed her fist on the table, making the plates rattle.
"I said EAT, Zoey."
I dropped my head and started eating.
Tears fell silently onto my plate.
I knew she was getting worse day by day.
And I knew she needed help real help.
But I was scared.
So scared of losing her too.
I didn't want to be alone… not more than I already am.
...…..Z...