kae-ish.

I remember the last time this happened, oh, I mean the time before last. When it actually stuck, because you stayed at your mother’s house and you thought you could do it again. It was a week after thanksgiving I think. My mother texted me to come upstairs and I could feel the anxiety pulse through my veins because it was two AM and that never happened before. I remember walking up the stairs to her door and knocking. Hearing my brother’s voice and opening the door to see him standing there with my nephew. He was only two at the time. Actually, he just turned two the month before... Wow, it’s almost been a year. I remember looking at my mother and father who were still half asleep and she said it.

“She’s gone.”

You cheated on my brother that time and last night you did it again. You’re a drunk, a nasty, disgusting, awful human being who deserves to rot in jail for the abuse you’ve caused to your soon to be ex husband and two children. One of your children is in desperate need for some serious attention and you know what I’m talking about. But rather than showcasing you actually give a shit about him you’re out with “friends” every night getting trashed and cheating on your husband with disgusting boys you met on dating apps.

And what’s fucked up? Is what I just stated happened in the past six months since you came back. Couple weeks before my birthday you were back in my kitchen telling me all about how you were going to aa meetings. How horrible you felt knowing I was raising your kids the past four months. How bad it made you feel knowing I was up at seven AM and putting your six year old on the bus and teaching your two year old how to talk and use the potty. How guilty you felt knowing I was being paid one hundred dollars every other week for fifty hours a week. How you were going to do so much better and be better because you wanted to get help and you knew you were sick.

And then that lasted a week, and you were just gonna drink on your weekends, because you weren’t an alcoholic you only drank so much because you were with your mother. You know your limit.

And then that lasted a month, and you were back to a box a wine every couple of days.

Tomorrow is your son’s birthday. His third birthday won’t be one he celebrates with his mom and hopefully this turns into a tradition because you’d just use it as an excuse to get wasted. It’s not like you actually like spending time with them unless someone is around. I literally came upstairs Friday to see the television was off, the iPad was on at the table and you were on the couch across the room on your phone ignoring your son. It wasn’t until I came upstairs did you start playing with him and I heard you when I went down. “Alright, that’s enough. Go play on the iPad.”

All you ever did was complain when you had to watch your kids. For the first time in over a year, my brother went out to see some friends for a football draft. The entire week before this all you did was complain that you had to stay home and he was going out, despite the fact that every single weekend you go out and leave him at home alone because you want to drink. Then, when he came home early to be with you and the kids, you went out again.

I have so fucking much I want to say. Like how you’re “not” an alcoholic despite the fact you wake yourself up every day with a box of wine. You make sure to have liquor in your cup before going to work. You make sure to have a “road soda” any time you go out for family events like parties. You get so drunk at my sisters house it’s almost tradition now that you puke all over the bathroom or in the backyard behind a tree. How we went a week without bread or milk but you were sure to get your box of wine and cigarettes. How both your six year old son and three year old son know the smell of liquor on your breath.

When you first came into our lives five years ago you used to tell me about how you had to bring your mother upstairs and put her to bed when you were fifteen and you left to live with your father at sixteen because she was such an alcoholic drunk. I used to hear all the time in school how history repeats itself. Never before has that sentence rung more true. You are your mother. A hurricane who leaves nothing but destruction in it’s path.

Once upon a time, I would worry for you. Hope you got help for your alcoholism. Hope you one day opened your eyes and saw how important your sons are and how they should be your whole world. But now I have one thing to ask.

Do you need a refill?

I would worry for your children, but I know they’ll be okay. Because I’ll be the mom they’ve always needed. Actually, I always have been. I’ll be the one who puts your six year old on the bus in the mornings and wish him a good day. I’ll be the one who kisses your three year old’s ouchies and celebrate his birthday with him tomorrow. Don’t worry, bitch, someone does care about your children. Someone does want them to grow up to be productive members of society. Someone does care about what happens to them. 

Once upon a time I’d say I’m sorry you’ll never have a strong bond with your children.

But this isn’t a fairytale, and I’m not sorry at all. You don’t deserve them after all the emotional abuse you’ve put them through. You don’t even deserve to be called a mom. You’re nothing more than a drunk birth giver. 

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’ll never speak ill on your name. Your sons will never hear from me that you’re a disgusting excuse for a woman. Your sons will never know all the terrible things you told me about their father, my brother. Your sons will never know all the times you told me you couldn’t stand them and you didn’t want to be in charge of them. Your sons will never know that you would drink 24/7 just so you didn’t have to be in a sober state of mind with them. Or at least, they won’t find out from me.

It’s such a cliche but I know how this will all play out. When your oldest is ten and the youngest is seven you will have them for the weekend. You’ll be trashed and the ten year old will be in charge of the seven, watching as you take back wine glass after wine glass. Listening as you motherfuck myself, my mother, my brother, my sister and everyone else who has done nothing but support you and try to care for you the past five years. And when I was young I never understood why they’d have a woman like that in the movies. What was the point of talking horribly about the people who took care of you and tried to better you?

But I know now. It’s because of jealousy and boy oh boy is jealousy a fickle bitch. You’re jealous because you know the boys are going to see you as you saw your mother, and us as you saw your father. The reliable support.

I know that I’m going to have to go through a lot of turmoil now. I know I’m going to have to put on a brave face and smile when the boys ask where you are. I know I’m going to have to be an adult and I think I am finally ready to take on this responsibility.