I pulled into my driveway and laid my head back on the seat with a sigh. This was the seventh day in a row working at the pizza place. Sixty hours this week, I thought, more days, more hours, more money. Whatever pays the bills . . . I realized I had only ten minutes to get ready for night school. Damn, I had to hurry. I walked to the door thinking, I hope Mommy cleaned up. I walked through the sliding doors into the living room, immediately disgusted as usual. 

Cigarette smoke filled the air. My mom’s bed, the couch, was a mess as she sat there in the same clothes she’d had on for the last three days—her boyfriend’s sweat pants and a shirt. She used a kitchen chair in the living room as a table with a filled ashtray, her drink and more junk on it. 

On the floor lay more cigarette butts and the half-gallon of vodka, half empty, with her Diet Pepsi next to it. I knew her back-up was in the freezer. What a hot mess. Her drink in her hand was almost done . . . soon she’d refill. I took all this in in an instant as soon as I walked in. Certainly not the mother I used to come home to. That mother had burgundy big 80s hair, green eyes and red lipstick. That mother made me breakfast in bed and put a scoop of ice cream in my hot cocoa. She taught me how to do my make-up and tease my hair. This woman in my living room—her hair was brittle and frizzy, her lips were bare and chapped, and freckles covered her face. 

[…]

I knew my mother was in there holding her drink in her hand. It was the same as holding a knife in her hand, because she was killing herself with that poison. She was moving less and less from the couch each day. Something in my gut had me frightened. This time, instead of worrying about the bills, or school, or her getting a job, I feared for her life.