He comes home…
We never know exactly when.
I used to think he was cheating on my mother.
Maybe he always was.
But the liquor stole him first.
It held him tighter than we ever could.
He felt safer there,
had more fun with the bottle.
With every beer that slid down his throat,
he was more and more at home.
He loved us—
but the beer loved him more.
It pulled him under,
blurred his vision,
made him forget.
When he’d stumble in during the daylight,
his body swayed like a boat on rough waters.
I never appreciated enough
that he made it home at all in that condition.
His words would slur,
each end of a word colliding
with the beginning of the next.
Sometimes, he’d get so lost in thought,
so tangled in his own mind,
that he’d forget what we were even talking about.
My mother was always mad.
I used to be mad too—
and never knew why.
Until one day,
I gave in.
Gave him my forgiveness,
the one he never asked for.
You can’t teach an old dog new tricks…
I tried to support him,
but it’s so hard.
My mom is so tired—
just wanting a husband to come home to,
not a ghost of the man she married.
Someone to help around the house,
to string together a single clear thought,
to spend more time here than at the bar.
It breaks my heart.
I don’t know who to support.
I love them both.
W
h
y
is it so hard to be the daughter of a drunk?
There was no violence, no bruises,
just the fogginess of his absence,
just the late-night entrances
and the screams of my parents.
I used to wish they’d get divorced
just so the fighting would stop.
Sometimes, he wasn’t around at all.
But I have the good memories too.
He truly did love me.
It’s an addiction, you know?
Maybe if he had the power,
the knowledge,
the tools,
he would have chosen us
instead of the liquor.
He is my father,
and I love him nonetheless.
One of the coolest guys I know.
A real respectable man—
a true OG from the outfields of Humboldt Park.
A man who never got the healing he needed.
A man trapped in addiction,
drowning out the echoes of his past.
A man whose baby daughter chose her mother’s side,
who had to face the weight of two women’s anger.
Who could he turn to,
other than the bottle—
the one thing that never judged him?
A man repeating the steps of his father,
walking the only path he knew.
A man who tried his best,
who fought the fight,
but sometimes the fight was too strong.
A man who never learned therapy was an option.
A man who feared his own tears,
who thought vulnerability was weakness.
A man who drank to forget,
who drank to silence the noise.
And I forgive him.
I always will.
This is what it means
to be the daughter of a drunk.
