One evening last month, I was FaceTiming with my dad. We don’t talk nearly as much as we should so we were getting caught up on each other’s lives. I was mostly telling him about Winnie and her school — about their field trip to the local fire station where Winnie fell in love; the hand, foot and mouth outbreak (I am gagging just thinking about it); and the dramatic day when she got sent to the “calm down corner” which I still haven’t heard the end of. Baby girl was not happy. My dad claims I was the same way as a small child and retold his favorite story of my own meltdown over a broken cookie. Which I personally don’t buy as I am one of the most reasonable people ever.

I’d just gotten back from the far too short, but incredible trip to Spain that I’d taken with Brendan and his parents so we talked about that too. I spent one full day dying from food poisoning in the hotel room — imagine my freak out when I woke up one morning vomiting. It turned out to be razor clams and nothing else and my dad thought this was hilarious.

Then my dad said, “So your mom has been drinking a lot lately.”

“Oh,” I said. This was nothing new to me — my mom has always been a very big drinker. It’s rare to find her without a drink in her hand. I’ve always naively thought nothing of it – It’s always just been the way it is. I mean, she and I would split bottles of Moscato when I was in high school and it was totally normal.

“She said she wants to slow down because she knows it’s been a little out of hand, but she thinks she might need professional help to do that,” he continued.

I didn’t say anything.

“The other night we went out to dinner and she could barely walk. I practically had to carry her to the car,” my dad said.

I burst into tears then. I don’t really know why. I always thought that yes, my mom drinks excessively, but she could control it. The thought of her not actually being able to and admitting that she needs help was so…sad. I just assumed she had a handle on things. I was thinking back to when I was force-feeding her espresso martinis, not knowing that she was literally fighting an addiction. I guess I should’ve known after the way they behaved the last time I was in Houston. I never thought one of my parents would be an alcoholic. My mother is an alcoholic.

“I know,” my dad said after letting me cry for a bit. “Hopefully she’ll be able to get the help she needs.”

It was so depressing. Every time I spoke to my dad, he just kept repeating the same sentiments. She’d go out with her friends and overdo it and my dad would have to go pick her up because she couldn’t walk. One night, my parents went out to a live show and she got hammered and actually got them kicked out of the venue. My dad was pissed.

Meanwhile, my mom was acting like everything was absolutely normal and perfect when I spoke to her. When I asked her about the concert situation, she downplayed it like my dad was exaggerating.

“You know how he is,” she said, brushing it off. “He loves a dramatic tale.”

She’s not wrong, to be fair, but my dad isn’t just going to make something up. I didn’t bring up all the stuff he told me, obviously, but kept asking her if she had anything new she wanted to share with me and leaving space for her to open up to me if she wanted to. But she never did.

Eventually I decided to take a trip back home to assess the situation myself. My dad was making it sound really bad and I imagined my mom was putting whiskey in her coffee and chugging Sutter Home minis like the people on Intervention. It became the only thing he wanted to talk about and I’d text him like, “How is she?” and my dad would say, “Not good.” But then my mom would talk to me like everything was normal. So I needed to go see how bad it truly was.

My mom was surprised by my impromptu visit, but she was happy nevertheless. She looked cute and put together — with wide leg jeans and fresh Botox. I was expecting a shitshow, especially since I surprised her. She looked absolutely fine to me. She made reservations for us to have dinner downtown, but my dad was preparing for a work conference so he couldn’t come.

We ordered pasta and a glass of wine each and I pretended not to be watching her intake. She wanted to talk about Brady because he’d been posting non-stop on Instagram like he just remembered his password or something. It’s mostly pictures of and with Caroline which my mom was happy to dissect with me.

“So is she Asian? She kind of looks like she could be Asian,” my mom said as we scrolled.

“I don’t know, but don’t forget she’s adopted,” I said.

“So she doesn’t wear much makeup, huh?” my mom pointed out. “She doesn’t need it.”

I was particularly annoyed by this comment considering my mom is always telling me that I’m not wearing enough makeup. I guess I’m absolutely hideous. I wonder who I get it from!

“I feel like he really, really likes her,” I said, which kind of pained me. “He won’t stop posting about her.”

“Maybe he’s doing it to get your attention,” my mom said conspiratorially.

Obviously that’s the first thing I thought too, but I said, “I feel like he’s been so much nicer since they started dating. I think he’s a lot happier with her than he was with me.”

“He seems confused,” she said with absolutely no evidence.

“About?”

“Everything, but certainly his relationship with you. He barely knows this Cara and he is probably hoping to get you back.”

I could not disagree more. What was she even talking about? We each ordered one more glass of wine, talked about Brendan (she asked which came as a shock since she doesn’t exactly like him) and how jealous I am about his current lifestyle. He’s not back at his company full time and just pops in whenever he feels like it. He hangs out with his dad a ton and they travel and tour historic NYC buildings and test drive new cars and etc. I want to do that with him! And then randomly, I’ll show up to a job site and Brendan’s Land Rover will be outside because he decided to grace us with his presence. I just want that carefree lifestyle. My mom was less than impressed by this and wanted to know where he gets money since he isn’t “working.” I’m like, I don’t exactly know lady, the same way other people with businesses do — which she in particular should know about since she used to partly own a business.

Anyway, we finished our wine and called an Uber to take us back to the house and I thought: this is fine. We each had the same amount to drink and my mom was able to handle moderation so what the fuck was my dad going on about? But then we got in the SUV to take us home and my mom pulled all these little bottles out of her purse and started mixing them in a bigger water bottle. Like a homemade cocktail kit or something. I have never seen her do that.

“Mom, what the fuck?” I couldn’t help exclaiming.

“Reese, watch your mouth!” she yelled at me, but continued mixing her little drink.

“Do you have a problem?” I asked.

My mom batted her eyelashes at me. “A problem with what, honey?”

“What even is that?” I gestured to the cloudy pink drink that she’d concocted which kind of looked like Pedialyte.

“Just something for the ride home. Is that okay with you?” she snapped.

That’s when I was like, yeah. We’ve got an issue. What’s it called — a “functioning alcoholic?” She’s not even always functioning, according to my dad. The fact that was bringing alcohol and whatever else around with her in her purse was such a major red flag.

I burst into tears in the back of the Uber and my mom didn’t say anything for a while. Then she was like, “What’s this about? Brady? Cara? Brendan?”

Ugh.

“No, this is about you! Dad said you’ve been drinking way too much and now I see what he means,” I said.

“That was months ago,” she explained. “I’ve got it under control now. I don’t know what your dad is talking about.”

“I’m sure he’s talking about this, Mom! This is weird,” I said.

“You’re overreacting,” my mom said calmly. “But if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll put it away.”

It didn’t make me feel better, especially when we got back to the house and she transferred her little drink to a martini glass.

So yeah. That’s where my parents are at. After I left Houston, my mom started calling to chat more — possibly to prove to me that she’s fine and sober and doesn’t need help. And I feel bad for my dad for having to deal with her and her issues. My mom said that he’s been staying at work extra late and I’m like, “Wow, I wonder why!” And I feel bad for my mom too because I know addiction is an illness and she is not going to get treatment until she’s good and ready. And that woman is very stubborn. So we’ll see what happens.