“What kind of mother are you?” I remember asking my own mother a couple years back. I had been frustrated, angry and quite frankly irritated by her behavior. 

Ever since my father died, she had become a raging alcoholic, drinking her sorrows away and wasting the little money she earned. At first I didn't blame her. Times were hard. Life was tough, and she had lost her one love. But then one glass became two and those two became a whole bottle and before anyone could understand what was going on, my mother was dragging in the alcohol in crates.

I didn't make things any easier for her. I yelled and told her exactly what I thought of her disgusting behavior, and she would cry and tell me she was sorry.

“I love you, Glenda. I won't have another sip after this.” She would say with tears in her eyes. But it was a lie and we both knew it. The very next day, I would come back from school to find her passed out in the dining room - a bottle still clutched in her hand as though she needed a sip even while she was unconscious.

I was only seventeen and the whole thing traumatized me. A person that loved you would never make you go through that.

Or so I thought.

By some miracle, I got married, settled down and had a family of my own. I loved my husband and daughter to death, but that trauma came back to haunt me.

Rick would look at me with searching eyes, concern drawing his brows together and worry pulling at the corners of his lips.

“You're becoming distant,” he would say as I was making dinner in the kitchen.

I never responded to him because what in the world was that supposed to mean? My mother was distant. Was he trying to say I had become like her? Never.

Rick was the quiet type. He never pushed if you din't want to be pushed, even when he was right.

…And he was. After a while, I had grown so distant that he couldn't stand it anymore…and left.

Alone with our ten year old daughter, I felt empty inside. It was then that I knew emotions had a taste. Guilt especially.

It tasted like the fermented grains I had come to be so familiar with. Though I never drank as much as my mother, I drank enough to make me useless.

The same question I had asked my mother all those years ago came back to me loud and accusing in the silence.

“What kind of mother are you?”

There is another emotion whose taste I have also become accustomed to.

It tastes bitter and vile like when you down too much liquor and you hear your ten year old daughter opening the front door on her way back from school.

The fear claws up your throat, threatening to come out and make itself visible.

You don't want her to find you like this again, but the world is spinning too fast. You grab onto the nearest piece of furniture and try to stand up, but your legs have failed you yet again and you fall to the ground.

The door finally opens and your sweet, innocent child walks in to find her mother on the ground - weak and helpless.

She's silent, watching you with wide eyes, not yet understanding but knowing something is terribly wrong.

She doesn't say anything though and it only breaks your heart some more.

In those moments, I'm reminded of my mother and her broken promises. There and then, I know that I truly never want to take another sip of the poison nectar and I'm also aware of the fact that I have never loved a human being as much as I love my daughter, but given the chance, I'd probably still do it again.

From my place on the floor, I watch my baby girl walk towards me to help me up and tears fill my eyes. I now understand everything my mother said, and I relate all too well, but I'll be damned if I let our mistakes ruin this precious life.

Standing shakily to my feet, I made a decision. No more drinks. No more feeling sorry for myself.

I was going to give my only daughter the mother I never had.