"I said stop!" She backs away, voice raw. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk to you. I just... I just need to be alone."

The words hit like a slap. And I've copped a few of those in my lifetime, but this one stung a little more than I expected it to. I watch her retreat inside, the cool breeze doing nothing to calm the noise in my head. Evan did something to her. I feel it in my bones. But I can't help her if she keeps pushing me away.

Hours pass before I decide to leave my room and head downstairs. There’s only so much overthinking a person can do before they drive themselves to the point of insanity. The TV casts soft shadows across the living room as I find Mom in her usual spot—half-conscious on the couch, wine glass teetering on the coffee table's edge. For a moment, I just watch her, aching for the woman she used to be, the one who lit up rooms with her presence. But that person's long gone, buried under years of disappointment and carefully hidden addiction.

I move the glass to safety and drape a blanket over her. She stirs, blinking up at me with unfocused eyes.

"Nate?" Her voice is thick with sleep and wine. I sink down beside her, chest tight at the sight of her pale face. "You didn't have to⁠⁠—"

"I got it, Mom," I cut her off gently, knowing this well-worn path.

She shifts, gripping my hand with trembling fingers. "I'm sorry," she whispers, breaking. "I know I haven't been... I haven't been what you deserved."

I close my eyes against the familiar ache. It's the same guilt, same apology, same regret. But it's too late.

"It's okay," I lie, like always.

"No, it's not." She squeezes my hand, breath uneven. "You've done so much. Looked after Jake, taken care of me. You've been more of a parent than I ever was. I'm so sorry, honey. You deserved better."

The words shake something in me, unearthing memories I've tried to bury. Nights spent waiting up, only to find her stumbling through the door reeking of alcohol. Covering her with blankets when she couldn't make it upstairs. Holding my breath, praying Jake wouldn't wake to see her like this. I was just a kid, but I had to be more. I had to be the one holding everything together.

My mind drifts to that night when I was sixteen, cramming for calculus and found her in the bathroom. She'd emptied a bottle of gin, then moved on to wine. I spent hours beside her, holding her hair back, listening to slurred apologies and bitter truths.

"You're so much more than I ever could have wished for," she'd said between retches. "You're too good for this world, my sweet boy."

The story spilled out that night—her alcoholic father, her mother's parade of boyfriends.