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“When she was sober,” she continued slowly, “the first couple days would always be good. It was like the way you feel before the weekend—the excitement on a Friday afternoon.”

Her eyes swam through the thick fog of memories, flickering to the memorial wall.

“But then,” she went on, “when you wake up Sunday morning, it feels different. Like you can’t even enjoy the last day of the weekend because you’re stuck thinking about Monday morning.”

Jess rubbed a light thumb across the back of her hand. “You knew what was coming.”

Sam pursed her lips, nodding once. “The longer it lasted—the longer she’d stay sober—the worse it was.”

Her head dropped slightly as a twinge of familiar guilt worked its way through her chest. “I think sometimes I almost wanted it to happen,” she whispered. “Just so I could stop obsessing overwhenit would happen.”

Jess turned to fully face her, placing her other hand on her thigh.

“And the longer it went on,” Sam continued, releasing a frustrated breath, “God, it felt likeIwas the one relapsing. I was so on edge all the time, and after a while it would just turn into this crazy rage.”

She closed her eyes as she exhaled, trying not to get lost in the guilt of those memories.

“Then she’d relapse and everything would go back to normal. Or at least,ourversion of normal. And I could finally stop worrying about when or how it would happen. I could focus on other things again.”

Sam took a deep breath, focusing in on Jess’ hand in her lap, like a tether that kept her from being consumed by the past.

“You weren’t wrong for feeling angry,” Jess whispered.

“I know,” she breathed.

And that was the truth. She did know. But knowing didn’t change anything.

“She’d always be such a mess on those first few days. She’d cry and apologize and say how horrible of a mom she was.” Sam sighed. “And I just had to pretend—to tell her it was okay. Because if I didn’t, if I got upset or angry, it would just make things worse.”

The last memories of her mother forced their way into her mind.

She swallowed, using all the strength she had to keep the sickening guilt at bay.

“I picked a fight with her,” Sam whispered, her throat suddenly feeling tight and raw.

She swallowed, keeping her eyes glued to Jess’ hand in her lap.

“That day—the morning before I went to school. She’d been sober for almost a month. The longest she’d lasted in a while. She wanted to walk me to school.”

The back of her eyes began to burn in a way she hadn’t felt in years. Or maybe even longer.

“I could tell she was trying to be a good mom. Trying to pretend like walking me to school was normal.”

She closed her eyes, seeing it play out in her mind. Seeing her mother’s face, and the healthier glow it’d finally begun to regain.

“And I just—broke,” she whispered. “I wassoangry with her. It all felt like a lie. Like I was some toy she wanted to take out and play with whenever she felt like it.”

Sam shook her head. No matter how many times she thought about it—turned every thought and reason over in her head—it didn’t matter. Because no matter what the reasons were, it all still ended the same.

Good reasons didn’t change a bad outcome.

Sam hesitated, her eyes scanning Jess’ face, searching for any sign of judgment. Then she pressed on, the words crawling out like they were being dragged against their will.

“Everything I’d held in came out. I said—horriblethings to her.”

Sam’s jaw tightened, the next words getting caught somewhere between her throat and her stomach.

Her hands fidgeted at her sides, brushing against the fabric of her jeans like she could scrub the memory away. “I thought she’d yell, or scream, or even cry. But she didn’t.” Her voice broke, the images flashing behind her eyes with cruel clarity. “She just looked—defeated.”