The smell hit him first. Always the smell. Sweet and sour, clinging to the curtains, the couch, her breath. It was the ghost of wine and something stronger, something she kept in a flask in her purse. Theo stood in the doorway of the living room, his backpack still slung over one shoulder, and watched her. She was slumped in the armchair, a half-empty glass dangling from her fingers, her head lolled back. In the flickering blue light of the television, she looked younger, almost like the mom he used to have. Almost.

He was fifteen when he first found her crying into a bottle of merlot at the kitchen table. It had been a bad day at work, she’d said. Just one bad day. But the bad days stacked up, and the bottles multiplied. Now, at seventeen, the ritual was as familiar as breathing. He dropped his bag by the door, the sound too loud in the heavy silence. She didn’t stir. The vibrant, sometimes overbearing mother who used to smother him with questions about his day and embarrass him in front of his friends was slowly being replaced by a ghost. Her eyes, which used to hold a spark of fierce love or care, now just looked... tired. Hollow.

Theo’s shame, which had once been a hot, sharp thing directed at her job, her presence, her very existence, curdled into something else: a deep, gnawing guilt that fed on his every memory of her. He remembered the day she’d lost her proper job, the one in the nice office. She’d come home, her face pale, and hugged him so tightly he’d squirmed. He’d been twelve, and all he’d felt was annoyance. Now, at eighteen, the memory was a blade. He’d been all that mattered, and he had made it clear she wasn't enough for him.

He saw the cause and effect with brutal clarity. His relentless rebellion, his cruel words—"I'm ashamed of you,""I can't wait to get out of this dump,""God, why can't you be normal?"—had been the hammers that chipped away at her until she started using alcohol to fill the cracks. He had driven his own mother to this. The realization was a physical weight, crushing the rebellious teenager out of him and leaving a terrified son in its place.

His life now revolved around a new, secret routine. After school, he’d rush home, his heart pounding as he turned the key in the lock, never knowing which version of her he’d find. Would she be the weepy one, clutching a photo of him as a child and slurring apologies for failing him? Or the silent, vacant one, staring at the wall as if she could see straight through it? He became an expert at stealth. He’d quietly search her hiding spots—the back of the cleaning cabinet, under the sink, the bottom of the laundry basket—and empty the bottles into the sink, the sharp, sour smell making his eyes water. He started grocery shopping, filling the fridge with healthy food she wouldn’t eat, and hiding the money she sometimes tried to give him for more liquor.

Standing in the living room now, looking at his mother, Theo felt a familiar sense of helplessness. He had brought her to this state, he was a disgusting son. And the guilt was eating away at him from the inside out.

He dropped his briefcase by the table and began picking up empty bottles, occasionally glancing at the sofa where she was lying, staring at the ceiling. Irritation began to form in his chest, not at his mother, but at the situation. Why? Why was he so selfish? Why did he ruin his mother's life?

The worst part was the silence in the house, a stark contrast to the shouting matches of just a year ago. He’d give anything now to hear her yell at him, to call him "Teddy" in front of his friends, to fuss over him. Anything was better than this profound, alcohol-soaked quiet.

Throwing away the cans and returning from the kitchen to the living room, Theo stood in front of the sofa and abruptly snatched the glass from her, holding it out of her reach. He's had enough. He need to take everything into his own hands. He needs to get his mom back, who has done so much for him. His gaze was stubborn and stern, his jaw clenched, tension visible in his shoulders.

"Mom, that's enough! Stop drinking! Get up and go wash your face, you look terrible. Aren't you tired of spending money on a booze?"