I’m startled as an older woman slides in beside me, and I can’t help but stare. She looks like my mother, only with dirty blond hair instead of dark, which stretches the length of her back. And just like Josephine, her skin is weathered and tan. It’s as if my mom is sitting right next to me.

Since she appears noticeably disturbed by my gawking, I pull my eyes away from her and force them to look out the window. I don’t want to think about my mom, but the woman beside me brings the memories in waves. The worst ones dominate any positive thoughts I could ever have of her. I hate her for the years I lost with her. I hate her for not letting me say goodbye. I hate her for choosing the drugs over me.

The house is unusually dark, and with the shades drawn, it’s hard for me to see much of anything. I slip my backpack off and set it on the couch, making note of the geometry homework that I know is inside and still needs to be finished. A house this dark when I get home from school usually means Mom is out for the night, but her car is in the driveway and I can hear rustling sounds and muffled conversation coming from her room in the back of the house.

I flip the light on and I’m stopped dead in my tracks, eyes wide, as I take in my surroundings. The glass coffee table is shattered to pieces, her favorite sculpture—a stone representation of St. Francis, the patron saint of animals—sits just inside the metal frame of the table with bits of glass sprayed out around it in every direction. The bookshelf is toppled over with books scattered all across the hardwood floor.

If I hadn’t seen this a time or two before, I’d be three blocks away by now and yelling for the neighbors to call the cops … but this is no home invasion. It hasn’t happened in a long time, but my mom has been known to destroy shit when she either couldn’t get any blow or prescription pills, or when she’s had entirely too much. As I creep down the hall, I’m debating which of those scenarios I’d rather deal with.

Just feet from her bedroom door, her rail-thin body bolts from the room, but she stops immediately when she sees me. Her hair is matted and drenched in sweat. Her eyes are wide with dark circles settled beneath them, and the size of her pupils tells me she’s clearly high as a kite.

I can’t move. In this moment, I am terribly afraid and my brain tells me to run as fast as I possibly can, but my legs won’t cooperate. When she first stepped into the hall, she looked confused and full of despair, but now, as she inches toward me, the evil in her eyes sends chills down my back. Her jaw is clenched and she grinds her teeth so hard I can hear it. She lifts a thin finger and jabs it in my direction.

“You!” Her voice is ragged, her breathing heavy, and the veins in her neck are thick and pulsing. At this point, she likely doesn’t even know who I am, though the way she scowls at me right now makes everything seem uncomfortably personal.

“You little fuck…” she growls, taking two more steps toward me, so close I can smell the bourbon on her breath. I back up a few steps, knowing full well when she mixes alcohol with pills or coke, she becomes someone else entirely. Not a human, but an animal, desperate for prey, that wants nothing more than to cause harm. She wants someone else to hurt as much as she does. And unfortunately, that someone is probably going to be me.

“Mom, wha-what’s wrong?” I stammer, reaching for the knob to my bedroom door as I back up. My hand comes in contact with the cool metal and I cling to it, ready to yank myself inside if need be.

“What’s wrong?” She stops moving and stands up straight. The angry, evil look on her face looks almost comical, like she’s remembering a joke she heard a few hours earlier. “What’s wrong?” She laughs as though that same joke was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. “What’s wrong is you … what’s wrong is that I had a perfect marriage until you. What’s wrong is I fucking hate you,” she hisses, and though I’ve heard these words before, this is the first time I actually believe them. “You’re a fucking tumor.”

I fight it with all my might, but a tear makes its way down my cheek. I didn’t want to cry, not in front of her, but since the first once has fallen, it’s as if the floodgates have opened. This is my mother, the woman who is supposed to love me.

The tears fall faster than I can dry them. I dab my shirt against my eyes, hoping that when I pull it away, she will be back in her room. But instead, she’s even closer. My back is flush against the door and she brings her finger to my face, causing me to flinch and draw back. I smack my head against the wall, but that doesn’t stop her. Instead, she slides her pointer from my chin to my eye, collecting some of the tears, and then she pulls her hand back to examine it. She looks down at me and then back at her finger with disgust before wiping it on my shirt as if she could catch something from it.

“Fuck your tears. Do you know how many tears I’ve cried over you stealing my life from me? How many tears I’ve cried because I didn’t listen to your father and get rid of you like he told me to do?” The last part cuts through me like a knife, my heart exposed to the cold, hard world and forever changed because of it.

But I’m not sad anymore, though the tears still pour. No, now I hate her. In fact, right now, I could kill her. I want to erase her from my memory and pretend my mother died a long, long time ago.

Just as I’m about to lose it, she turns and charges back to her room, slamming the door so hard I can hear every picture in her room tumble to the floor. Pushing my door open, I quickly slip inside, shut it behind me and burrow into bed. I bury my face in my hands, and for longer than I’d like to admit, I cry.

The tears begin to dry and I pull a picture from my nightstand, the only one I have of my mother and father together—the only one I have of my father at all. I’m eight years old and seated in both of their laps, all of us with Mickey Mouse ears on. It’s my favorite picture, probably because it’s the last time I remember us being happy. I managed to swipe it from my mother before she burned every picture with my father in it, everything he ever bought or touched or looked at … my childhood literally went up in flames.

I stare at the picture for an eternity, and for the millionth time, I coat it with a fresh layer of tears. Once I’ve cried my last tear, I make my way to the kitchen and pick up the phone, because right now there’s only one person I want to see—the only one that can take this pain away. And she’s the only family I’ll ever need.

“Katie?” A voice tugs at my consciousness, pulling my eyes open, and for a second, I have no idea where I am or who could be talking to me. I rub my palms into my eyes and try to wipe away the fogginess.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. Your eyes were open just a few moments ago and you seemed alert.” Really? Alert? My coherence finally returns and I recognize the woman, who sort of looks like my mother, looking very motherly at me. My mother. I’m on a flight. My mother died. I’m heading home.

“How long have we been flying?” I ask.

“A little over six hours. Do you not remember speaking with me a few times along the way?” she asks, sounding concerned.

I scan my brain but come up empty. Then, as if making sure my limbs are still intact, I scan each sleeve of my uniform and both pant legs, and then I look around the plane, taking everything in. “I’m sorry, I don’t. I…” She puts a hand up to stop me.

“Don’t worry about it. I can only imagine what little sleep you all get over there. Thank you for what you do, by the way. I have a lot of family that served and continue to serve. I was actually over in Germany visiting my son and his wife. He’s in the Army and they had their first baby, so I got to see him. Now I’m making my way back to Memphis via JFK.” She pauses briefly, putting a hand to her mouth to capture a yawn, then continues. “Of course, we’ve discussed all that, so sorry if I’m repeating myself.”