In a quiet corner of Yorkshire, there once lived a woman named Margaret who despised drunkards. It wasn’t mere dislike—her hatred gnawed at her very soul whenever she spotted someone swaying with drink. Her irritation would begin with the faintest tightening of her jaw, ending with her hands trembling in fury. She knew why. For years, Margaret had watched her mother, Beatrice, slowly drown herself in gin. Each evening brought fresh dread, and every night, she feared closing her eyes, knowing morning might bring another disaster.
Her childhood, most of all, stayed etched in her memory—grey, grimy, and reeking of stale spirits. Beatrice would stagger home late, sometimes past midnight, stumbling like a puppet with cut strings. Once, when Margaret was seven, she found her mother sprawled by the doorstep, limp as a rag doll. Terror gripped her, yet even then, she knew it wasn’t right. The neighbours eyed her with pity; the schoolchildren taunted her, whispering about the drunkard’s daughter in their midst.
At school, the japes never ceased. They called her mother a sot, laughing as if it were a jest. Margaret wept through the nights, hiding her tears, refusing to show weakness. But inside, a tempest raged—grief, anger, shame.
The worst came when Beatrice stopped caring for their home. Filth piled up: empty bottles littered the floor, crumbs crusted the table, dust smothered every surface. Margaret tried to scrub it clean, but she was just a girl—one who longed to play and learn, not tidy up after a drunken parent.
Evenings were the hardest. Alone in the dark, Margaret listened to her mother’s slurred curses, her drunken sobs. Sometimes, glass shattered, or a thud shook the walls. She’d freeze, heart hammering, waiting for silence.
One afternoon, returning from school, she found the cottage in shambles—chairs overturned, dishes smashed, Beatrice sprawled on the floor, reeking of gin. The stench made Margaret’s head spin. She wanted to flee, but instead, she fetched a cloth and scrubbed, tears streaming down her cheeks. That day, she swore her own child would never see her like this.
Years passed. Margaret grew, married, bore a son. Now she had a family she cherished, but the past clung to her. Every drunkard on the street made her heart lurch, dragging her back to the fear and shame she’d known. She vowed her boy would never feel that dread—never flinch at his mother’s footsteps. The past couldn’t be undone, but the future? That was hers to shape.
And Beatrice?
She knew Margaret loathed her. They barely spoke. When they did, Margaret’s words were sharp, clipped. Beatrice couldn’t meet her eyes, fearing the disgust there. She knew she deserved it—every ounce of pain she’d caused. Her presence alone stirred fury in her daughter.
Sometimes, Beatrice imagined another life—one where she’d been sober, tender, where Margaret had grown up safe. But the thoughts only deepened her guilt. She couldn’t undo the past. All she could do was try, however feebly, to be better.
It was too late, she knew. Margaret had built a world without her, and Beatrice couldn’t blame her. She’d chosen this path. Now she paid the price. Some nights, she dared hope for forgiveness.
Each morning began the same: throbbing skull, churning gut. She’d grope for memories of the night before, but they slithered away—a glass, then another, then nothing. Sometimes she woke on the parlour floor, other times wedged between bottles in the kitchen. The worst was realising she’d done it again—that Margaret wasn’t there to tend to her.
“Ungrateful wretch,” she’d mutter into her pillow, too weak to lift her head. “I raised her, lost sleep for her, and now she’s gone. Left me to rot. Ought to have never had her. No one to fetch me a drop of water now. Someone ought to make her respect her own mother.”
