Page 24 of The Moment Promised

“He hates your mom’s hair,” she spits out, leaving me alone in the dark room.

I sink into the bed, finally able to let myself feel everything that happened today. I grab a throw pillow, stifling my sobs with it.

“I wish you were here, Finn,” I whisper into the dark, pulling my knees to my chest in the fetal position. I close my eyes, picturing the Walker’s bright, colorful home. I long for their smiling faces and welcoming hugs.

Anger builds and builds like a rolling snowball. “I want to go home!” I shout. Rage brings down the wall of fear I’ve built. “Take me home! I want to see my mom!” My screaming stings my throat.

The door flies open and my dad looks angry. Erin is right on his heels with a pleased expression on her face.

“Shut the fuck up and go to sleep!” he shouts, coming up to the side of the bed.

I kneel, almost eye level with him. “I want to go home!” I repeat, begging.

Jason pushes me onto my back. Every ounce of fear slams into me like a highspeed train. He becomes blurry from my tears.

Erin steps beside him. “You’re not going home, so stop crying like an ungrateful brat,” she yells, but not with the same fire as Jason.

I squeeze my eyes shut, turning into a crying sobbing mess.

“Shut your fucking mouth!” Jason screams even louder.

I open my eyes, expecting him to be directing his orders at Erin, but he stares right at me.

“Me?”

“Who the fuck else?” He turns, grabs Erin’s hand, then slams the door behind him with enough force to rattle the walls.

Everything in my body shatters.

I pretend I’m somewhere else with Finn.

We’re swimming at the beach.

Everything is okay.

But when I open my eyes, everything is not okay.

7

NOW

If there’s a point beyond rock bottom, my mother managed to surpass it.

I’ve spent the last week doing absolutely nothing for her, but I’ve never felt so drained. She’s screamed out in frustration many times. She’s fallen over from drinking too much. She hasn’t had me there to help her back up.

She’s a miserable, help deprived, mess.

Watching her struggle is beyond anything I can imagine, and it tears me apart, but sometimes tough love is the only thing you can do to save someone. I won’t enable her anymore; it pulls her deeper into the hole of addiction, further away from getting the help she needs to get sober.

One day she’ll see this was my way of saying I love you.

If she makes it to that day.

I try to push those thoughts aside. Hope is the only thing getting me from point A to B.

There are five stages of grief, or so I’ve been told. My mother hasn’t died, but in a way, she has. I’ve been stumbling back and forth between the five stages since her addiction began.

Right now, I bargain.

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