Mom Came Home Drunk Again
By the Kid Who Saw Everything
It started, like all great disasters, with a creak at the front door.
At first, I thought it was the wind. Maybe a raccoon. Maybe a ghost. But then I heard the unmistakable sound of high heels clacking against tile, way too loud for 11:52 p.m. on a school night.
That was when I whispered the words that signaled trouble.
“Mom came home drunk again.”
Now, let me back up. My mom isn’t a bad person. She’s actually pretty amazing most of the time. She makes pancakes in weird shapes—last week she made one that looked like Yoda. She sings while she folds laundry. She watches documentaries and yells at the screen like it’s a football game.
Mom Came Home Drunk Again -Neato – PDF Room
But when she goes to Book Club, all bets are off.
You’d think “Book Club” meant adults reading in quiet dignity. But no. In their world, it’s wine, nachos, more wine, dramatic toasts, one or two actual books, and karaoke by hour three. The last time she went, she came back with glitter on her face and tried to convince our cat to run for mayor.
So there I was, crouching behind the couch with a granola bar in one hand and my phone in the other. I didn’t call for help. I just started recording. For the memories. For the evidence. For the laughs.
The door flung open like a scene in an action movie. Mom stood there in a leopard-print jacket that wasn’t hers, sunglasses at night (again), and holding an empty martini glass like it was a trophy.
“MY BABY!” she shouted.
I blinked. “Hi.”
“I brought you… something amazing,” she slurred, rummaging through her purse and pulling out… a breadstick.
Not wrapped. Not protected. Just… a lukewarm, fuzzy breadstick.
“From Olive Garden!” she declared, holding it high like Excalibur.
I nodded, slowly accepting the breadstick like it was a sacred artifact.
“Thanks.”
She wobbled inside, kicking off one heel and then tripping over the other. She flopped dramatically onto the couch, landing face-down, then rolled over with the grace of a beached manatee.
“I was the QUEEN of karaoke,” she mumbled. “They clapped after my Celine Dion.”
The cat, deeply offended by the commotion, leapt off the couch and left the room. Probably to file a noise complaint.
I stood awkwardly, breadstick still in hand.
“You should eat,” she said, eyes half-closed. “Growing kids need… gluten.”
“Thanks, Mom. You need… water.”
I got her a glass and sat beside her. Her mascara had become abstract art. She reached out and patted my head like I was a plant she was trying to encourage.
“You’re a good boy,” she said. “Smarter than me, probably. Don’t go to Book Club, okay?”
“Deal.”
“I mean it. One minute you’re talking about Jane Eyre, next minute you’re on a table singing ‘Shallow’ with Carol from PTA.”
I had so many questions. I asked none of them.
Eventually, I helped her to bed. She tried to do a dramatic bow before going upstairs, tripped on her shoe, and gave me a thumbs-up from the floor.
“Everything’s fine,” she said.
The next morning, everything was… less fine.
She came downstairs wearing sunglasses and holding her head like it was a fragile egg. I was already at the table with cereal and juice waiting.
She paused.
“Did I… give you a breadstick?”
“Yes.”
“Did I… sing Celine Dion?”
“Yes.”
She sat down, groaning into her coffee.
“Oh no.”
The cat jumped up on the table and stared at her.
“I know, Mr. Whiskers,” she said. “I disappointed you.”
He meowed. Harshly.
“I think you owe the mop an apology too,” I added. “You tried to tango with it.”
She groaned louder, like a haunted foghorn.
Later, she promised to go easier next time. She said maybe it was time to find a different kind of book club. One with more books and fewer flaming shots named after Greek gods.
But truthfully, I didn’t mind that night. Sure, it was weird. Sure, it smelled like cheese fries and poor decisions. But there was something sweet buried in it all, too.
She’d had fun. She trusted me. And even in her wildest, breadstick-wielding chaos, she still came home to me—with love in her voice and sparkles on her face.
That night, after I brushed my teeth and climbed into bed, she came into my room, sober now, still in pajamas, holding a fuzzy blanket.
She tucked me in and kissed my forehead.
“I know I was… extra last night,” she whispered.
“A little.”
“But I hope you know… even when I’m being ridiculous, I love you more than anything in this world.”
I smiled, sleepily. “I know.”
She paused, smiled, then added, “Also, I made pancakes. They look like famous philosophers this time.”
“…What?”
She left the room laughing.
The next morning, I ate a Plato-shaped pancake. It was dry. But full of love.
And that’s my mom. Sometimes wild. Sometimes weird. But always mine.
Even when she comes home drunk again.
It was a normal Tuesday night… until it wasn’t.
(MOM enters dramatically, wearing sunglasses at night, a party hat, and holding a half-eaten taco.)
MOM:
“Hellooooooo my beautiful family! Did ya miss me or did ya MISSSSSS me?”
Son
(KID (about 10) peeks from behind the couch, confused and wide-eyed. CAT sits on top of the TV, clearly judging.)
Son
“Uh oh. Mom went to Book Club again…”
Son
(Flashback panel showing MOM and three friends toasting with wine over open books titled “War and Tequila” and “Fifty Shots of Grey Goose.”)
Narration box:
“Book Club” was always suspicious.
Panel 5:
(MOM dances with a mop like it’s a ballroom partner. She dips the mop dramatically.)
MOM:
“Enchanted evening, Señor Mopito!”(Dad walks in holding a bowl of popcorn, looks at the scene, then quietly turns around to leave the room.)
DAD:
“Nope. Not my circus tonight.”
son
(KID walks over and gently takes the taco from her hand.)
KID:
“Come on, Mom. Let’s get you to bed before you start doing karaoke in Spanish again.”
MOM (singing):
“Livin’ la Vida Loca~!”
son
(Later. MOM asleep on the couch, wearing a superhero cape made of a curtain. KID puts a blanket over her.)
Narration box:
She may be a little extra sometimes…
son
(KID looks at her fondly as CAT curls up next to her.)
Narration box:
…but she’s our extra. ❤️
