After my dad left

After my dad abandoned us when I was nine, my mom's hospital shifts prevented her from spending time with me. I was alone, often. Initially, she didn't seem affected — almost relieved, when my dad left us. Their fights had been this simmering tension: my dad reeking of something mysterious, his eyes bloodshot. My mom would shout, “Lazy bum! When're you getting a real job? Don't you fear the consequences?” I'd hide under the bed, the muffled voices kicking up that sinking feeling every kid gets — this is my fault. When he left, I asked, “Are we gonna be okay?” She'd stare into my eyes, telling me how beautiful I was. Yet her grays began earlier, work sucking the life from her frame. When I turned fifteen, her words turned to gibberish, forgetfulness creeping in. She always used to say that she was just tired, I used to tell her “Momma, take a break” But she couldn't, bills to pay, me to take care of. She didn't stop, she couldn't stop. I was too important for her, she wanted to give me a good life. That went on until she was diagnosed with early stages of dementia.