With a deep sigh, I call my mother for what seems like the hundredth time. After five rings, her voicemail starts up, the same as it has been for years.
“Hi, you have reached the voicemail box of Lauren Evans DeJong. I am unable to come to the phone right now but plea-” I hang up. I don’t have time for this.
Suddenly I hear the mechanic moaning that means the garage is opening. I don’t go down to greet her. She is over an hour late, I’ll be lucky if I get to my show on time. A few minutes later I hear I uneven thumping sound on the stairs, confirming what I had already predicted. She is drunk, again.
With each step she takes she stumbles and bit. Although she hasn’t spoken yet, I know that her voice will be different. Her voice will be about an octave higher and possess a sing-song quality, like a child saying a nursery rhyme. Her eyes are unable to focus on anything for longer than a few seconds. They just stare out into nothing. Even if I had ignored all these previous signals, I couldn’t ignore the smell of wine that surrounded her. Anyone who was within ten feet would be able to smell it. The whole audience at the show would be able to.
When she opens the door to the master bedroom I am no longer able to control my anger. “Where the h**l where you! Mom! We have to go in fifteen minutes and you promised you would curl my hair! I can’t be late!”
Her speech comes out slurred. “I’m so sorry it’s all about you-” she began sarcastically.
“Save it. I should have known not to count on you. You let me down EVERY TIME! Can you support me ONCE?” I’m yelling now, saying things I didn’t intend to say. I should stop myself. I should apologize. I don’t. “I know you’re drunk and I’m used to it. You want to screw up your life? Whatever. But the one day I need you, the one day I’m counting on you to be a mother for once, you show up drunk?”
I wait for a response. I brace myself for the onslaught of words that I’m sure will leave me grounded, phoneless, and crying. In the silence I hear the garage door open again, meaning my sister and dad are home to take me to the theatre.  Within moments we will be leaving, if I’m to make it on time. I look her in the eyes, hard. I give her a chance to say something, anything. I wait for her to apologize or yell at me. She says nothing.

When I arrive at the theatre, I finally begin to cry. My friends hold me in their arms and wipe my smeared mascara. During the whole show I look for her in the audience, but she never shows.