I Almost Became My Mother
Published: @December 2, 2025
Recently James and I decided to cut down on drinking. Neither of us could handle much anymore anyway. We proudly told the kids over the Thanksgiving table that we wouldn’t buy any more booze once our stock ran out. But minutes later, he poured himself a double scotch, which he said would be it. Of course, after that, he got himself another double.
Buzzed a bit, he tasted the apple cinnamon pie that Ashley, my twenty-year-old college kid, had fixed and said, “So good.” Usually he wouldn’t touch anything sugary, no matter who made it, but when he got buzzed, his self-control around food went out the door.
I understand. When you’re buzzed, things taste better, and you eat more than you would when sober. Alcohol messes with your leptin, the fullness hormone that tells you you’ve had enough. The reason, I was convinced, for my recent extra pounds. That’s why I said, “Anything tastes good to you now.”
But that must have meant something else to the kids. Ashley, normally a calm, coolheaded girl, said, “Wow, Mom, you shouldn’t say that.”
Then Miley, shooting me a side glance, said, “So out of left field,” followed by, “You are so rude.”
This whole thing was out of left field to me. Me being attacked by my two daughters. But their tone was different: Ashley’s was more surprise, but Miley’s was more judging, condescending, like you are so bad, so snarky.
At that moment, what almost came out of my mouth was, “How dare you! After all I’ve done for you! You never appreciate whatever I do for you!” But that would make me sound just like my parents. So I shut my mouth and walked away from the table. Which is so my style. I’m someone who avoids conflict at all cost.
On my way out, I glanced at James, who had a little smile on his face. He must be happy that both his girls took his side. Daughters to the rescue! But I wasn’t attacking him. He should know that. We just made a pact to drink less.
Back in my room, alone, I thought about why. Why my kids ganged up on me, why my husband didn’t come to my rescue. I realized then they must have thought I was making fun of his weight.
But they’d figure that out. James would explain why. Then someone might come knock on my door. Could be Ashley. Could be Miley. Tell me she’s sorry, that she was rude, that she’ll never do that again.
Well, it didn’t happen. Nobody knocked on my door.
At that moment, what almost came out of my mouth was, 'How dare you! After all I've done for you!' But that would make me sound just like my parents. So I shut my mouth and walked away.
Later that night, when everyone went back to their bedrooms after dinner, I snuck out because the kitchen had to be cleaned. James and Ashley did most of the cooking that day, with the understanding that I’d be cleaning after. Thankfully most dirty dishes were now in the sink, but the white picnic table that James had brought upstairs was still sitting there, taking up space. He’d used it as an extension to the dining table where we could place all the Thanksgiving dishes. In order to collapse it so it could fold back into a flat position, I pulled it out from under the tablecloth and tried to fold the four skinny plastic legs. But they wouldn’t budge. They were stuck.
I struggled for a few minutes when Miley came up from behind me and said, “Let me help you before you break it.”
So I’ll break it if I don’t get help? That was strike two. I let go of the part of the table I was holding, without making sure it wouldn’t drop on her toes, and returned to my room, shutting the door behind me. (In my defense, it was a cheap plastic table with almost no weight.)
She, again, didn’t follow me to my room to say sorry.
I know, I can be petty. Sometimes. Or many times. Well, I would wait until she says sorry, all on her own. Eventually.
That night, someone walked into my room and kissed me on my cheek. For a short moment, barely awake, I wondered whether it was Ashley or Miley, but the smell, the floral perfume. Is that Miley? But I fell back asleep and forgot about the kiss, the perfume.
“Did you know Miley left at like 3:30 a.m. to watch the sunrise?” James asked the next morning while I was on the treadmill.
I didn’t know that, and then I went “Oh,” a sound of recognition, a rustle of realization. It really was Miley who kissed me last night. She’s the one who wears perfume when she goes out.
P.S.
As a person who avoids conflict at all cost, the only weapon I have is silent treatment. Or I think “icy treatment” is a better term. That includes never acknowledging you’re upset. That’s why I said no when Miley asked this evening if I was upset. I hadn’t returned to my silly mom self yet, the one who tries to bluff by saying I’m going to embarrass her, which makes her snort.
“Okay.” She walks away, saying she’d go to bed. At this point, I’m still waiting for her to say, “Sorry, Mom.” I know, I can be petty. Sometimes. Or many times. Well, I would wait until she says sorry, all on her own. Eventually.
But when I stumble upon an animation movie on Netflix that she and I can watch together on this Friday night, I call out loud, “Miley, come watch this movie with me!” Then I realize she just said she was going to sleep.
But Miley comes out, sits next to me. “What are you watching?”
“Oh, it’s just an animation about a robot that’s stranded on an island in the middle of nowhere but becomes friends with all the animals there.” I say this watching her face, full of sleepiness but fighting to stay awake so she can watch the movie with me.
“I’m sorry, I forgot you said you were going to bed. Go back to bed. We can watch it later.”
“Sorry, Mom. Good night.”
And she leaves me and my movie, reminding me that she’s a good girl. Just a little stubborn, strong-headed, know-it-all teenager. Just like I had been when I was a teenager.
And she leaves me and my movie, reminding me that she's a good girl. Just a little stubborn, strong-headed, know-it-all teenager. Just like I had been when I was a teenager.
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