The Uber car smelled like stale fries and coffee. Outside, Chicago rain smeared the streetlights into watery streaks.

I gripped my suitcase tighter as we pulled up to the familiar brownstone. Mom stood silhouetted in the doorway, her robe hanging loose on her frame. She didn’t wave.

“Hey,” I said, stepping onto the wet pavement. Her eyes were puffy, unfocused. Up close, I caught the sharp tang of alcohol beneath her floral perfume.

She pulled me into a stiff hug. “Your flight was late.” Her voice rasped like gravel against concrete. Inside, the living room felt cavernous without Dad’s booming presence.

I dropped my suitcase. “When did you last eat?” She waved a dismissive hand, sinking onto the worn sofa. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Rain tapped against the windows like impatient fingers.

“I keep expecting him to walk in,” she whispered, staring at the blank TV screen. Her knuckles whitened around her glass. “Shouting about the damn remote.” A tear traced the crease beside her mouth.

The fridge held nothing but wilting celery, a half-eaten jar of pickles, and three bottles of expensive chardonnay. “Chinese?” I suggested, pulling out my phone. She nodded absently, swirling the dregs in her glass. Outside, street lights made the wet pavement silver.

Egg rolls arrived greasy, lo mein steaming. Mom pushed noodles around her plate. “He hated this place,” she murmured suddenly. “Said it gave him heartburn.” A hollow laugh escaped her. “Guess he was right.” Her fork clattered onto the porcelain.

Later, washing dishes, I heard the distinct glug of a fresh bottle uncorking in the living room. When I leaned in the doorway, she avoided my eyes, taking a long, deliberate swallow. The silence felt heavier now, weighted with things unsaid. Rain still whispered against the glass.

“About tomorrow,” I started, keeping my voice low. “The service at St. Alphonus ... eleven o’clock.” I wiped my hands on a towel, watching her shoulders tense. “Father Callahan’s handling it. He said Dad always ... contributed generously.”

Mom snorted softly, swirling the pale gold liquid in her glass. “Generous.” The word tasted bitter. “He bought his way out of guilt. Like paying extra for a stain remover.” She took another sip, her gaze fixed on the dark TV screen reflecting her own weary face. “Did you pick the readings?”

“Yeah.” I moved closer, perching on the arm of the sofa. “Psalm 23. And that Corinthians passage about love being patient.” Her knuckles tightened around the glass stem. “I thought ... maybe you could read something? A poem? Something simple.”

Her laugh was sharp, brittle. “Read? Dylan, I can barely string two coherent thoughts together.” She finally looked at me, her blue eyes swimming with tears and something darker. “He wouldn’t want me up there slurring his eulogy.” She drained the glass, the click of crystal on the coffee table echoing in the quiet room. “Let the priest talk. He knew the version people liked.”

The rain had softened to a drizzle. I stood, feeling the exhaustion seep into my bones. “Okay, Mom. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.” I leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Her hair smelled faintly of shampoo and wine. “Try to get some sleep.” She didn’t respond, just stared at the empty glass as if willing it to refill itself.

I climbed the creaking stairs to my old room. The air was thick with dust and memories – high school trophies, faded band posters, the faint ghost of teenage angst. Changing into sweats, I listened. Downstairs, the faint clink of glass against bottle resumed, a lonely, rhythmic counterpoint to the dripping gutter outside. My chest tightened. ‘She’s drowning’, I thought, ‘and I don’t know how to throw the rope.’

Back downstairs, she hadn’t moved. The new bottle was already half-empty. “Mom?” Her head jerked up, startled. “Come on,” I said gently, holding out my hand. “Let’s get you to bed.” She hesitated, then placed her cold fingers in mine. Her grip was surprisingly strong, clinging like a child afraid of the dark. We shuffled down the hallway, her leaning heavily against me, the scent of vodka tonics sharp on her breath. Outside her bedroom door, she paused, looking impossibly small and lost in the dim light. “He always snored,” she whispered, her voice thick. “Like a freight train. God, I hated it.” A single tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek. “Now the silence ... it’s worse.” She squeezed my hand once, fiercely, then disappeared into the dark room, closing the door softly behind her. The quiet settled back, heavier than before.

The funeral was a blur of damp wool coats, murmured condolences, and the cloying scent of lilies. Father Callahan’s voice echoed under the vaulted ceiling of St. Alphonus, talking about Dad’s “generosity” and “community spirit.” Mom sat rigidly beside me in the front pew, clutching a damp handkerchief. Her knuckles were white. She hadn’t read anything. She hadn’t spoken at all. When the priest mentioned Dad’s “sudden passing,” a choked sob escaped her, quickly stifled behind the crumpled linen. Her eyes, when she glanced at me, were red-rimmed and vacant. The rain outside matched the grey pallor of her face. Back at the house, neighbors pressed casseroles into our hands, their eyes lingering on Mom with poorly concealed pity. She accepted them numbly, her smile brittle, retreating towards the kitchen cabinet where the vodka lived before the last guest had even pulled away from the curb.

The next few days bled together after that, each one a grim echo of the last. Mornings brought Mom shuffling into the kitchen, already wrapped in a faded robe, her movements slow and deliberate. By noon, the slur crept into her words, her laughter too loud and sudden. Empty tonic and vodka bottles multiplied in the recycling bin. She’d talk about mundane things – the mail, the weather – with unnerving intensity, then abruptly trail off, staring into space, her glass perpetually refilled. One afternoon, I found her slumped at the kitchen table, head resting on her arms, surrounded by grocery flyers she hadn’t read, a half-empty tumbler beside her cheek. The vibrant, sharp-witted woman I once knew was buried under this fog. She’d pass out early, leaving me alone with the echoing silence and the ghosts of happier times.

On the third evening, the sharp clatter of her glass hitting the tile floor shattered the quiet. She fumbled clumsily, cursing under her breath. “Mom,” I said, my voice tight, kneeling to pick up the shards. “This can’t go on. Look at you.”

She flinched, pulling her robe tighter. “It’s the grief,” she mumbled, avoiding my eyes. “It’s ... crushing. This helps.”

“It’s drowning you,” I countered, standing up, the broken glass cold in my hand. “It’s not just grief anymore. You need help. Real help. Grief counseling, maybe?”

Her head snapped up, blue eyes blazing suddenly. “Counseling?” Her laugh was harsh, brittle. “Talking won’t bring him back! Won’t make the silence stop! You don’t understand!” She snatched the bottle from the counter, her hand trembling. “Leave it alone, Dylan. Just ... leave me alone.” She turned her back, pouring another drink with defiant precision, her shoulders hunched against me.

The next morning dawned grey and heavy. I found her slumped at the kitchen table, head resting on her folded arms, a spilled tumbler soaking into a grocery flyer beside her. Her breathing was shallow, uneven. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through my frustration. This wasn’t just sadness; it was a slow, desperate unraveling. I pulled out a chair, the scrape loud in the stillness. “Mom,” I said softly, placing a hand on her trembling shoulder.

She stirred, lifting her head slowly. Her face was pale, etched with deep lines of exhaustion, her eyes bloodshot and hollow. She looked utterly defeated. “I can’t,” she whispered, her voice raw and thick. A tear spilled over, tracing a path through the dried salt tracks on her cheek. “I can’t do this anymore, Dylan. The shaking ... the fog ... the shame.” Her gaze met mine, filled with a terrifying vulnerability. “You’re right. I’m ... lost.” She covered her face with trembling hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. “It’s got me. It’s got me.”

“Okay,” I breathed, relief warring with profound sadness. I squeezed her shoulder gently. “Okay. We’ll find help. Today. Will you go to an AA meeting?”

She lowered her hands, her eyes searching mine desperately. “Only ... only if you come with me?” she pleaded, her voice small. “I can’t walk into one of those rooms alone. Not yet.”

“I’ll be right there,” I promised. A quick search found an open AA meeting starting in an hour at a community center just blocks away in Lincoln Park. The walk was silent, her steps hesitant beside mine. The nondescript building smelled faintly of old books. Inside, folding chairs formed a circle. Mom gripped my arm like a lifeline as we sat near the back. Faces around us held stories etched deep – weary, hopeful, resigned. A woman with kind eyes shared about losing her job, her voice cracking. An older man spoke of rebuilding trust with his grandchildren. Mom listened intently, her knuckles white on her purse strap. When the facilitator asked if anyone new wanted to speak, she shook her head violently, shrinking into her seat. But she stayed. She heard the word “powerless,” and a shudder ran through her. She heard “one day at a time,” and her grip on my arm loosened, just slightly.

Back home, the silence felt different. Lighter, yet charged with fragile hope. Mom moved slowly, deliberately, avoiding the kitchen cabinet. She made tea instead, the kettle’s whistle piercing the quiet. We sat at the table, steam curling from our mugs. “They ... they understood,” she murmured, staring into her tea. “The shaking hands. The hiding bottles. The ... the lying.” She looked up, her eyes clearer than they’d been in days, though shadowed with exhaustion. “It felt ... possible. Just for today.” She managed a small, tremulous smile. “Just today.” Later, she shuffled down the hallway to her bedroom. I listened, holding my breath. No clink of glass. No muffled sob. Just the soft click of her door closing. The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it was full of the immense, terrifying effort of that single, sober breath she was taking. I stayed at the table long after my tea went cold, listening to the quiet house, hoping it wouldn’t break.

Morning light, pale and weak, filtered through the kitchen blinds. Mom sat hunched over her coffee, her hands wrapped tightly around the mug as if seeking warmth. “I need to stop,” she said abruptly, her voice rough but steady. She didn’t look at me, focusing on the swirling liquid. “But Dylan ... the withdrawal. The doctor warned me years ago. The shakes, the sweats ... the nightmares.” Her knuckles whitened. “I can’t face that alone. Not in this empty house.” She lifted her gaze then, raw vulnerability laid bare. “Will you stay? Help me through it?” Relief flooded me, sharp and sweet. “Of course,” I said instantly, reaching across the table to cover her cold hand with mine. “Every minute.” Her fingers tightened around mine, a silent anchor.

That afternoon, Dr. Evans’s office smelled antiseptic and faintly anxious. He listened gravely as Mom haltingly confessed the years of escalating vodka consumption, the hiding spots, the morning tremors. His expression softened with weary understanding. He prescribed Librium to ease the worst of the withdrawal anxiety, vitamins B1 and B12 to combat malnutrition, magnesium for the shakes, and a strict hydration regimen. “It won’t be easy,” he warned gently, handing Mom the prescriptions. “Be kind to yourself. Lean on Dylan.”

Back home, Mom gathered every bottle – the wine from the fridge, the vodka from under the sink, the half-empty gin behind the cereal boxes. One by one, she poured them down the kitchen drain. The sharp, acrid smell of alcohol filled the air as amber and clear liquid swirled and vanished. She stared at the empty bottles cluttering the sink, her shoulders slumped. “That’s ... that’s all,” she whispered, not meeting my eyes. The slight hesitation, the flicker of guilt crossing her face, was unmistakable. “Come on, Mom,” I said softly, stepping closer. “Every bottle. Every hiding place. I need to know.” She flinched, then sighed, a defeated sound. “The linen closet,” she admitted, her voice thick with shame. “Behind the towels. A pint.” I retrieved it – cold, half-full. She watched, trembling, as I poured its contents down the drain with the rest. “I’ll be watching,” I said firmly, holding her gaze. “Every moment. No secrets.” Tears welled, but she nodded, a fragile surrender. “Okay,” she breathed. “Okay.”

The next morning dawned grey and oppressive. Mom pushed her oatmeal around her bowl, her hand trembling visibly. A fine sheen of sweat coated her forehead despite the cool kitchen air. “Head’s pounding,” she mumbled, pressing her fingers to her temples. “Like a marching band inside my skull.” Her breathing was shallow, rapid. The Librium took the razor edge off the panic clawing at her throat, but it couldn’t stop the tremors in her hands or the cold sweat soaking through her thin t-shirt. She paced the living room restlessly, unable to sit still, jumping at the creak of the old floorboards. I kept her hydrated, forcing sips of electrolyte water and bland broth past her nausea. By evening, exhaustion finally dragged her down. She slept fitfully, tangled in damp sheets. Later, she jolted awake, gasping, eyes wide with terror. “He was here!” she choked out, clutching my arm. “Your father ... huge ... filling the doorway ... chasing me!” The dream’s residue clung to her, the phantom smell of stale beer and sweat thick in the humid room. I stayed beside her bed, wiping her brow with a cool cloth, murmuring reassurances until her frantic breathing slowed and her eyelids fluttered shut again. The silence was heavy with the echo of her fear.

The next day arrived like a hammer blow. The tremors escalated violently around noon. Mom’s hands fluttered uncontrollably, knocking her water glass off the bedside table. Then, her whole body seized. It wasn’t the grand mal convulsion I feared, but terrifying nonetheless – a sudden rigidity locking her limbs, her head snapping back, eyes rolling upwards for five agonizing seconds before she slumped, gasping, drenched in sweat. “Dylan?” she whimpered, disoriented, her voice thick with terror. “What happened?” “It’s okay, Mom,” I soothed, my own heart pounding against my ribs. “Just a small seizure. You’re safe.” They came more frequently as the day wore on – brief, brutal interruptions of electrical storms in her brain. Each one left her weaker, more confused, her skin clammy. By nightfall, they were hitting every twenty minutes. Between seizures, I bathed her feverish body with lukewarm water, gently washing away the sweat and fear. She was too weak to protest, her eyes hollow pools of exhaustion. After a particularly violent spasm left her trembling uncontrollably, she vomited weakly. I cleaned her up, changed the sweat-soaked sheets again, held her shaking form until the tremors subsided into shallow, ragged breaths. When she finally passed out from sheer exhaustion around 3 AM, her face pale and slack against the pillow, I dragged a blanket and pillow onto the floor beside her bed. The rhythmic rasp of her breathing was the only sound in the dark room, punctuated by my own ragged sighs of relief. No hallucinations pierced the gloom; the dreaded DTs mercifully stayed away.