We pull up in front of Lou’s bar, the flickering neon sign buzzing faintly above the door, casting everything in that sickly red glow I remember too well.
I’ve been here more times than I can count. Mason used to come with me when they called, because I never knew if she’d walk out on her own or if we’d have to carry her.
Tonight, I already know.
“Stay here,” I mutter out of habit as I reach for the door handle.
Dex doesn’t even acknowledge that. He’s already out of the truck by the time I step onto the pavement.
Of course he is.
The warmth from the truck disappears instantly, replaced by the stale, heavy smell that leaks out the second we push the door open.
Beer. Sweat. Something sour underneath it all.
Lou looks up from behind the counter, relief flashing across his face when he sees me.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag as he walks around the bar. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I answer automatically, even though it’s not. It never is.
I follow his gaze to the far end of the counter.
My mom is slumped over, her head resting on her folded arms, blonde hair tangled and dull under the dim lights.
For a second, I just stand there.
This used to be the woman who braided my hair before school. Who packed lunches. Who laughed in the kitchen.
Sometimes I still see her. On the rare days she’s sober, when she smiles like she used to, like nothing ever broke. But those moments… they’re getting harder to find.
Now it’s mostly this. The shell of her.
I tried.God, I tried. Rehab. Therapy. Begging. Fighting.
At some point, I had to choose. Hold on to a sinking ship… or make sure Mason didn’t drown with her.
I chose him.
Doesn’t mean I stopped hoping. Just means… I stopped breaking myself trying to save her.
“Mama,” I say softly, stepping closer as I place a hand on her shoulder and give it a gentle shake.
She stirs, groaning, then lifts her head.
Her eyes struggle to focus before they finally land on me.
“My baby!” she slurs, her face lighting up as she throws her arms around me, pulling me into a hug that’s too tight, too unsteady.
The smell of alcohol hits me hard, sharp enough to make my stomach twist.
“I missed you,” she murmurs against my hair, her words thick and uneven.
“I’m here,” I whisper, even though it doesn’t feel like enough. It never does. “Let’s get you home, okay? Can you walk?”
She tries. God, she tries.
But the second she pushes off the stool, her legs buckle, and I barely manage to catch her before she hits the floor.
