Page 54 of Single Dad's Fake Bride
"Recovery." She said the word like it tasted bitter. "Forty-three years old and I'm back to square one. Again."
"You're fifty-three."
She turned to look at me for the first time since we'd left the hospital. "What?"
"You're fifty-three years old. Not forty-three…"
The confusion that flickered across her face made my stomach drop. I'd seen that look before, during the worst of her drinking, when entire days would disappear from her memory.
"Right," she said after a moment. "Fifty-three."
I parked outside our apartment building and helped her up the stairs. Her hands shook as she fumbled with her keys, so I took them and opened the door myself.
Stale air and the lingering scent of yesterday's coffee greeted us as we walked in. I opened the windows while Mom sank into her armchair, still clutching her overnight bag.
"I need to put some things away," I said, heading toward the kitchen.
That's when I saw the bottle of vodka, tucked behind the flour canister where she thought I wouldn't look. Premium brand—unopened, seal intact. She'd hidden it there before going to the hospital, maybe as a backup plan for when she got home.
I pulled the bottle out and stood there holding it, feeling its familiar weight. For a moment, I considered saying something. Confronting her. Asking how many other bottles were hidden around the apartment.
Instead, I unscrewed the cap and walked to the sink.
The vodka gurgled down the drain, thirty dollars' worth of liquid courage disappearing into the city water system. I didn't stop until the bottle was empty.
"What are you doing?" Mom appeared in the kitchen doorway, her face flushed with anger.
"Cleaning."
"That's mine." Her voice cracked on the word. "You have no right."
I set the empty bottle on the counter and turned to face her. "I have every right. This is my apartment too."
"I paid for that." She moved toward the sink as if she could somehow salvage what was already gone. "Do you have any idea what that cost?"
"Do you have any idea what your hospital stay cost?" The words came out more like a shout. "Five days in detox. The ambulance ride. The blood work. The?—"
"I didn't ask you to call the ambulance." She waved her hand, dismissing my lecture.
"You were unconscious on the bathroom floor."
Mom slammed the cupboard door so hard the dishes rattled. "I'm not a child, Sadie. I don't need you monitoring my every move, throwing away my belongings, treating me like some kind of prisoner."
My hands started to shake, but I kept my voice level. "I'm trying to help you stay alive."
"Maybe I don't want your help."
The words suffocated the air in the small kitchen. Mom's chest rose and fell rapidly, her face red with indignation and withdrawal symptoms. I could see the teenager she must've been once, defiant and afraid, before alcohol became the answer to every difficult emotion.
"Well, you're getting it anyway," I said quietly.
She stared at me for a long moment, then turned and stalked back to the living room. I heard the television click on, volume too loud, some daytime talk show filling the apartment with artificial chatter.
I stayed in the kitchen, gripping the edge of the counter until my knuckles went white. The walls felt too close, the air too thin. How long could I keep doing this? How long before the constant vigilance and worry broke me completely?
My phone buzzed, and while I didn't pick it up, I had a gut feeling I knew it was him. Harrison had offered me some insane gesture, probably meant to help him more than me, but it was a way out.
The marriage proposal that wasn't really a proposal. It was a promise of stability and security in exchange for five years of my life.
