The house was dark by the time I got home, save for the bright orange glow of a half-burnt cigarette, which smoked gently in the ashtray on the coffee table. Behind it, I could just about make out my mother's silhouette on the sofa. I grabbed the patchwork quilt from the armchair, draping it across her body before getting to work.

I started with the living room first, clearing away the empty bottles and placing them with the others out back. This had become a regular occurrence for me over the last few months. I'd grown used to finding my mother passed out on the sofa, an empty wine glass on the floor and an even emptier bottle beside it.

I'd spent months running to the store in the early hours of the morning, searching for items that would cure her hangover in time for her shift at Bob's Bargains, the local–and only–convenience store in Pinewood. Months of waking up to the sound of her keys fumbling in the door, where she'd stumble through the threshold reeking of alcohol and the cologne of strange men. And I knew with each month that passed what it meant.

My mother was an alcoholic. My mother was no longer a mother, but a woman I was forced to care for. Forced to check in with each night not for my safety, but for hers, because there were times when she didn't come home at all. Where she'd be gone for days while I went about my day with a feeling of dread, wondering if that last time I saw her was going to be the last time.

She always came back in the end, once she'd overstayed her welcome wherever it was she went, and I was back to trying to care for the both of us, juggling school and work while trying to keep our problems a secret. I figured if people didn't know the truth then they wouldn't ask questions, and if they didn't ask questions, they wouldn't try to take me away from her.

Sometimes, I wondered if that would really be the worst thing. It would certainly make life easier only having to care for myself, but I knew my mother couldn't survive without me, and that thought alone was enough to keep me quiet. Just as I had once needed her, she now needed me—at least until I'd saved up enough money to leave her with before I headed to college. As much as I loved her, there was no way I could stay in this dead-end town forever.

After tidying the house as best as I could, I headed into the bathroom, grabbing my toothbrush before staring into the blurry cabinet mirror. I always looked significantly better at the start of a shift than I did at the end of one, and my reflection in front of me was proof of this.

I took in my dark circles and Welcome To Barney's name badge with distaste. Sometimes, I liked to imagine what kind of girl I would be if I didn't have to try so hard. If I'd be more free-spirited like Stacy, whose own mother forced Stacy to get a job at Barney's, not because they wouldn't make rent otherwise, but to teach her daughter the importance of money. To build character. Or maybe I'd have ended up exactly like my own mother, wanting everything to fall in my lap without putting in any of the effort. Maybe, just maybe, the girl I was now was already miles better than the girl I could have been.

***

"You start at three, remember," I reminded my mother the next morning, where she lay strewn in the same position I'd found her in last night. Her green eyes were steadily fixed on the tv, but she managed to grunt in response. "I've watered down what's left of the milk if you want some cereal," I said, "and I already washed and ironed your uniform last night." When she didn't respond, I grabbed my blue pom-poms from the kitchen counter and stuffed them into my bag. "I know you can hear me. Please, please don't turn up late. If you lose this job, we won't make rent."

"Give it a rest, Meg," she finally snapped, her voice worn and raspy from all her years of smoking. She used to be beautiful once, or so I was told, but by the time I was born, my beautiful mother was already gone, a ghost of her former self. According to the people of Pinewood, it was all my father's fault. "I can get myself to work on time."

I clenched my jaw and grabbed my bag from the breakfast stool, swinging it over my shoulder. "Fine." I gave her one last disapproving look. "I'm going to school." I walked over to the front door, pausing once my hand reached the handle. I didn't exactly know what I was waiting for. Maybe a, Have a good day at school, Meg, or even a, Bye, honey, but my mother's eyes remained glassy and glued to the screen, as though she'd forgotten I was there.