Page 62 of A Love That Broke Us
Jensen groans and heaves again, and I’m moving before I even think, back at his side, holding him over the toilet. I rub his back, speaking soft, gentle words to him.
God, I hate this.
I get that people over drink sometimes—I do. But Jensen always knows when to stop. He knows when one more is too many.Was he upset? Did something happen?
I get him laid back down and eventually crawl into bed. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the noise from Matt and Kevin down the hall, and my own thoughts, but it doesn’t work. My mind races, cycling through every possible scenario of why. I bounce between worry and anger, then start rehearsing all the things I’m going to say to him.
Eventually, my thoughts slow, just enough, but I can’t sleep. My eyes crack open, gaze locked on the empty, cold side of the bed—his side. The side where he’s supposed to be next to me. The place that’s always been mine to curl into him.
It’s something my mom dealt with her whole life.
I take a shaky breath and tell myself it’s okay. This is a one-time thing. Jensen isnotmy dad. I amnotmy mother.
We’re different.
I won’t put up with this shit.
Not like she did.
Not ever.
I didn’t sleep well.I tossed and turned all night.
By the time the sun rises, Jensen’s still on the bathroom floor, and I’m sunk deep into the couch, my fingers wrapped around my coffee mug keeping my hands warm.
It’s a quiet, peaceful morning. The fire flickers in front of me, and a fresh blanket of snow covers the ground. The sun’s out, reflecting off the white, and everything’s still. It’s beautiful. Itshouldbe calming. But even this perfect morning can’t ease my mind from the conversation that needs to happen.
Maybe I’m overreacting. I keep telling myself that. But seeing Jensen that way last night hit something I didn’t even know was there. It brought it all back—the things I’ve buried so deep I almost forgetthey exist. Is it PTSD? I’m not sure. But it was a trigger. That’s for damn sure.
My mind wanders back to the last time I saw my dad. It was about a month after my mom passed. Three weeks since we’d had the funeral.
I was living in an apartment in Evanston with a few girlfriends, splitting rent, sharing rooms, scraping by while going to school. I was working part-time at a coffee shop in the city, and that night, I had gone home looking for a wig for a Halloween party. My mom always kept our old costumes packed in a bin in the closet.
I knew going home wouldn’t feel the same without my mom there. But still, I wasn’t prepared, not even a little. The second I walked through that front door, I felt it—it wasn’t my childhood home anymore.
It reeked of booze—thick and suffocating. Stale liquor and heavy breath clung to the air. The kitchen was trashed, like my dad had forgotten how to function. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes, beer cans piled high, empty liquor bottles lined up on the counter like collector’s items. Red Solo cups, pizza boxes, and random crap were scattered across the table and floor.
I stood there, trying to make sense of it, but everything I knew about my home had been stripped away.
My dad had taken every family photo with my mom and turned them face down. It was like he wanted to erase her. Like in some drunken rage, he thought if he smashed everything that reminded him of her, he could somehow get back at cancer—or her for leaving him.
My dad loved my mom.God, he loved her. But walking into that house, it was like she had never even existed.
And then I found him.
He was passed out on the floor, in the middle of the hallway, lying in a puddle of vomit. Like he’d tried to make it to the bathroom but never did.
He stirred when I walked by, groaning, and then mumbled, “Ellen?” He was hallucinating. He couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. Didn’t even know it was me—his own daughter.
I’ve never felt so much sorrow as I did in that moment, freshlygrieving my mom—staring at my dad, broken and filthy, asking if I was her.
That’s when I knew I was about to lose him too.
The truth is, I had already lost him months before we lost her. His soul left the day he started drinking again. But standing there, watching him reach for someone who wasn’t me—who wasn’t anyone—something inside me snapped. Anger seethed through me, hot and sharp, mixing with the fresh sting of tears.
I hated him for leaving us. For leaving her. For not even recognizing me.
I hated him.
