They all knew
I was eight years old when my mum’s drinking really took hold.
My dad had left, and it was just the two of us at home.
Mum would start the day with brandy for breakfast. I learned very quickly that I had to look after myself.
Every morning, I would take myself to school. School became my escape. I knew I would get lunch there, but more than that, I had a few precious hours where I could be someone else.
I could be a child instead of the carer I would become for the years that followed.
I would find mum in the pub
When the school day ended, I would wave goodbye to my friends and tell teachers I was going home with someone’s mum. Instead, I would walk to the pub to find mine.
I would ask strangers for money so I could buy a cone of chips for my dinner because I knew Mum would not be leaving the pub until she was thrown out. If only the day ended there.
Most evenings, we would end up at a random person’s house where Mum could carry on drinking
I would sit there, still in my school uniform, completely invisible. Eventually, I would help Mum home, clean up her vomit, sometimes worse, put her to bed, and then do it all again the next day.
Groundhog Day.
Those were actually the easier days.
Mum could be cruel
Some nights, Mum’s “friends” would pile us into a car and drive from pub to pub while drunk. I was terrified. I remember sitting in the back seat, scared that we were going to crash, scared that nobody else seemed scared at all.
When she drank, Mum could also be cruel.
“You’re the reason your dad left.”
“If you were a boy, he might have stayed.”
Those words stay with a child.
Nobody ever asked the question
Christmas was never predictable.
The tree would go up and come down every other day depending on Mum’s mood. Some days she acted as though I wasn’t even there.
My mum was one of twelve siblings, and they all knew what life was like in our house. They all knew she drank. They all knew how chaotic things were. Yet not one person stepped in to help me.
They all knew.
The adults outside of my family knew something wasn’t right too. My teachers would tell me off for being tired in class or for eating too quickly at lunchtime. Nobody ever asked the question that might have changed everything:
“Are you okay?”
My nervous system was constantly on high alert. I jumped at every raised voice, every bang, every unexpected noise.
I still do.
I grieve for the mum I never had, not the one I was given
Seven years ago, I attended a family funeral with my mum
As I stood listening to the vicar talk about the life that had been lost, looking at the flowers surrounding the coffin, I silently said a prayer.
That day, although she did not know it, I laid my mum to rest.
It was the last day I ever saw or spoke to her.
People often ask how I can walk away from my own mother, but the truth is that I grieved for her a long time ago. I grieve for the mum I never had, not the one I was given.
Today, I live a peaceful, drama-free life
The chaos no longer belongs to me.
But trauma leaves its mark.
So many people knew
I still flinch at loud noises. I still carry memories of that little girl who walked herself to school, searched pubs for her mother, and spent her childhood caring for someone who should have been caring for her.
What stays with me most is this: so many people knew.
The family knew.
The neighbours knew.
The teachers knew something was wrong.
Yet nobody asked the question, and nobody stepped in.
They all knew.
Kelly
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