dy to confront the next challenge awaiting me: home. The thought of facing my mother, lost in her own world of addiction, filled me with a

curious stares of passersby as I made my way through the familiar streets of our neighborhood. It was a rundown area, f

ew what to expect, of course. The stench of alcohol, the slurred speech, the vacant look

y mother slumped on the couch, a half-empty bottle of whiskey clutched in her hand

y mother slurred, her w

eplied, my voice tin

as she focused on me, her

she demanded, her voice

rying to keep my tone neutral despite

g of whiskey before setting the bottl

at good is school gonna do you? You're just like your fa

heck. I had heard it all before, the insults and the a

ot back, my voice trembling

hed with rage, her fa

eethed, her voice rising to a shout. "I'm yo

enched so tightly that my nails

art acting like a mother," I retor

ith a sharp crack. Pain exploded across my cheek, but I refused to show any weakness. I st

hing and the pounding of my heart. And then, without a word, I turned and fl

h the streets. I didn't know where I was going, only that I had to get away, f

if there would ever be a light at the end of the tunnel, a glimmer o