"That depends on your mother's commitment to recovery. We can refer her to outpatient programs, support groups, counseling services."
Patricia leaned forward.
"But Sadie, she has to want to get better. We can't force sobriety on someone who isn't ready to embrace it."
I knew this.
I'd known it for years, but hearing it spoken aloud made my chest tighten.
All my efforts to hide bottles, to monitor her intake, to clean up her messes—none of it mattered if she didn't want to change.
"I'll talk to her about the program," I said.
Patricia squeezed my shoulder.
"You're a good daughter. But you can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved. Remember to take care of yourself too."
The words followed me as I walked to my mother's bedside.
She was awake now, staring at the ceiling with glassy eyes.
Her dark hair fanned across the pillow, streaked with gray I pretended not to notice.
She looked smaller somehow, diminished by the hospital gown and the tubes running from her arm.
"Baby?" Her voice was hoarse and uncertain. "What happened? Where are we?"
I pulled the visitor's chair closer to her bed.
"You're in the hospital, Mom. You had too much to drink two nights ago and fell. Do you remember?"
She frowned, concentrating.
"I remember being sad. About work, about money. Everything's felt so heavy lately."
My throat constricted.
She sounded so young, so lost.
This was the mother I remembered from childhood—vulnerable, honest, needing protection instead of providing it.
"The doctors want you to stay for a week," I told her. "There's a program here that can help you get better."
"A week?" Panic flickered across her features. "Sadie, I can't afford to miss work for a week. We need?—"
"Mom."
I took her hand, surprised by how cold her fingers felt.
"You lost your job three days ago. Remember? You called in sick too many times."
The memory returned slowly, and with it, the shame that made her turn away from me.
"Oh. Right."
"Let them help you," I whispered.
"Please. I can't keep doing this alone."