Dad leaving Mom messed her up. It messed both of us up — especially when he quickly moved on to another woman, had two kids with said woman, and built a completely new life that didn’t include us. Add that to her already traumatic dating life before Dad, and you could say Mom had her reasons for acting a little… much at times.

Most men couldn’t take it. They couldn’t sit with her in the hard times, couldn’t hold her hand through the panic attacks or give her words of affirmation when she so desperately needed them. When her jealousy and paranoia swept through her like a hurricane, they didn’t batten down the hatches and ride out the storm alongside her.

They took the fastest escape route out of town, leaving her to manage the damage.

And in their parting words, they made sure to make her feel like the crazy one, the nag, the jealous bitch, the psychotic, untrusting woman. Never mind the fact that they gave her plenty of reasons to feel those emotions.

But in the end, it was always me there picking up the pieces.

And that was when I braced for the other side of my mom.

When she was happy, when things were good, Mom was the brightest light of sunshine. She was enigmatic and fun to be around, motivated and driven, passionate about everything. She’d be invested in my life, in keeping our home clean and put together, and most of all, in her relationship with whoever the guy was.

But when they left?

She was a disaster.

Mom had always been a drinker, ever since I could remember. The difference was that when I was younger, when it was her and dad, that drinking was usually a bottle of wine between them — one that led to them laughing and dancing in the kitchen.

But Mom drinking A.D. — after Dad — looked a little different.

It was entire cases of beer consumed on her own. It was crying and screaming and clinging to the toilet as I held her hair or pressed a cool washcloth to the back of her neck.

And that was another part of the cycle that repeated itself — happy drunk when she was with someone, and a drunken mess when they left her.

Sometimes, in the worst of the breakups, she’d turn to drugs. Sometimes, she’d let depression take her under. Sometimes she’d get so close to being fired that I wondered how she’d stayed with the same place all this time. She’d blow through her savings, get into so much trouble that she needed to ask her only son for money, and then make me feel guilty if I didn’t give it to her.

And I would — every time.

It didn’t matter if I had to clear out my savings, work a summer job, or sell my PlayStation.