When I returned home, my mother was showered and on the couch with a blanket over her lap. She didn't have any make-up on to conceal the lines etched around and the creases at the corners of her eyes. She looked.... worn. Defeated. 

She tried to smile when I walked in carrying the movie and two pints of ice cream, but her eyes reamined dull and unaffected. 

I put the movie in and sat next to her on the ouch. We ate our ice cream and watched the movie in silence, until her voice broke the stillness with, I can be such a , can't I?'

I didn't know what to say. I was actually afraid to look over at her, hoping she wasn't really expecting an answer. So I scraped my spoon along the top of the ice cream and waited. 

'I don't know what happens,' she finally continued. I glanced over at her out of the corner of my eye. She wasn't looking at me, but staring down at the floor, consumed by her thoughts. 'It's when I drink too much. I get... I say things I shouldn't. I'm a terrible person.'

'No you're not,' I said automatically. She peered up at me, her blue eyes heavy with guilt. My mouth softened into a small smile. 'I didn't understand what you were going through. I didn't know.'

'It takes the edge off,' she continued. My brow twitched, uncertain what she meant. 'The alcohol,' she clarified, 'makes the pain bearable. I'm not as strong as you. You can shut it off and block everything out. You were able to do that even as