She puts dinner on the table- one of those big, family-style meals she makes in a hopeless attempt to prove we still are a family. A meal with vegetables, creamy mashed potatoes, and meat in gravy. Everything smells great and looks incredibly appetizing. The only thing missing is the family.
Just as I'm about to serve myself, she excuses herself. Pushes back her chair abruptly, and walks out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I can hear the bathroom door slam shut, the lock turn. And then, the toilet seat slam closed. This is no new event.
I eat my meal in silence, alone. Trying to wonder how everything crumpled around me. He's not even home, he's always at work. At least if he was here, I wouldn't be sitting by myself. I swallow, lost in thought, trying not to disturb the silence that surrounds me. I don't like this silence. I don't even want this silence. I just want to scream, and break the silence, ANYTHING. I dare myself to drop my fork, to fake a sneeze, anything to assure myself that I haven't gone deaf.
Instead, I just take a deep breath and spoon another mouthful. After I've had seconds, and am about to put my dish into the sink, she walks back downstairs, eyes red from crying. She turns her head as soon as she notices that I'm staring at her eyes. She takes a big gulp from her drink… a drink that is obviously alcoholic. She's not even trying to hide it.
It's one thing to drink in public. It's another thing to drink at home, alone with your daughter, when you're not even making a stab at conversation. I pick up my plate, put it into the sink. Mom ladles herself some food, and I excuse myself, up the stairs. I don't want to witness my mother's life falling apart.
And before I even reach the second-story landing, I hear her fork clatter back onto the plate. Another night she starves herself to death.