The forgotten Children of Addiction

Lauren Adamson

It was a hot summer day. I wiped the sweat off my face as I stepped off my bike
to answer the phone. My mom was calling, and she sounded frustrated.
“You need to come home right now.”
Her words slurred and caught in her mouth as if something had a hold of her
tongue. My heart began to sink; I knew what this meant. Immediately my body buzzed
with anxiety, something I felt often after speaking with my mom. (Mosel) I rushed home
on my bike, my hair caught in the wind. I tried not to think of what was to come for me.
I rushed inside and stood at the top of the stairs. I moved slowly and lightly trying
not to make a sound. The air smelled bitter and fermented, an aroma I was familiar with.
I glanced down the stairs to see my mom’s bedroom light was off. “She’s been drinking,”
I thought to myself. The door was shut, and I heard the distant whirring of her TV.
As I stood there contemplating my next move my mom came out of her room
suddenly.
“Where have you been?” My mom asked. “I need help with your sister.”
Just then my sister came running up the stairs, her blonde bob tangled in a rat’s
nest, wearing no shirt, only a diaper. Her usual attire. She came up to greet me like a
puppy dog coming to greet their owner after a long day of work. I ushered my sister to
come upstairs with me.
“I’m hungry Lolo,” she said as she walked up the stairs behind me. I got a pot out
and started cooking ramen, her favorite meal. I had become a “parentified child,”
watching after my sister as only a child myself. (Mosel) My sister began running around
the kitchen and living room in laps, skipping, and jumping as she went. I paused to
smile at how hyper she was being. Just as I looked up, she ran past the fridge, her foot
catching on the lip between the carpet and the tile.
Immediately her body crashed to the floor headfirst, hitting the tile with a loud
thud. She let out a loud scream that quickly turned into a high-pitched cry. As she came
up off the ground, I saw a puddle of blood pooling on the floor. I quickly turned her face
towards me and looked at her forehead. I gasped as I was greeted with a large bloody
gape on her forehead. My chest tight, I began to panic. I got up as quickly as I could
and ran to get my mom.
What happened after is a blur. My mom rushed us to the Emergency Room
where we were quickly taken back. Two nurses strapped her tightly to the bed. “She
needs stitches,” one of the nurses said in a calm, stern voice.
The nurse began to prepare the needle. It was long and thick like a railroad
spike. I began to feel queasy. I looked behind me to find my mom and noticed she was
nowhere to be found. Suddenly I realized my mom’s addiction was destroying her ability
to function as a mother.
“Okay, we are going to start now. Are you ready?”
 The forgotten Children of Addiction
Lauren Adamson
“No!” my sister yelled between tears. “I’ll hold your hand,” I mustered with a
shaky voice.
They began to stitch up her forehead, blood falling with each new stitch. The
next few minutes felt like an hour. I felt my sister squeezing my hand tightly keeping
both of us grounded.
“Almost done,” the nurse announced while making her final knot. Finally, the
agony was over.
As I turned around, I saw my stepdad rushing in to meet us. Now I knew we were
safe. My mom didn’t come home until the next day. It wouldn’t be the last time she
stayed out all night.
 The forgotten Children of Addiction
Lauren Adamson

Mosel, S. (2023, August 31). Children of alcoholics: Growing up with an alcoholic parent.
American Addiction Centers.
https://americanaddictioncenters.org/alcoholism-treatment/children