steuern zahlen für binäre optionen Heather walked through the front door of her house looking like an absolute wreck, her cheeks flushed, her thick eyeliner smudged and her dark hair in disarray. Slamming the door behind her, she stared expectantly at the woman splayed out in the living room armchair. Her mother, too engrossed in the glass of wine in her hand, barely acknowledged her. On the table beside her sat a nearly empty bottle of Pinot Noir.
“Where were you?” Heather demanded. “I told you my recital was ending at 11. It’s almost 1 buy cytotec online fast delivery in Torrance California a.m. Where the hell were you?”
“1 a.m.?” Her mother squinted at the watch on her arm and raised her eyebrows, as if surprised at the passage of time. “I thought you didn’t want me to come to your recital.” Her speech was slurred, the words spilling clumsily from her mouth and blending together in a jumble.
Heather’s mouth twisted. binäre optionen etoro Of course I didn’t. Viagra werden billiger Look strategies for trading binary options at you. You think I want the other girls to associate me with you www iqoption con ? opzioni binarie strategie 1 ora You think I want to hear their moms whispering, judging you—judging me? she thought. The last thing she needed was for someone to get a glimpse of her mother in the state she was currently in—the state she was always in. But she would never say that outright.
“You said you would pick me up,” Heather growled. “I turned down rides from other girls’ moms because you told me you were going to be there this time. I waited for 45 binära optioner minutes. I must’ve called—I don’t know—30 times? And still I had to walk all the way home, alone, at night—again.”
“Honey, I’m so sorry,” her mom garbled before taking another swig of wine. She didn’t sound it. Heather fixed her eyes on the glass in her mother’s hand. How badly she wanted to smack it out of her grip, to watch it shatter upon the floor and see its contents spill like blood and stain the white area rug beneath their feet. How resentful she was of this small, disgraceful shell of a woman. How embarrassed she was to belong to someone so desolate and self-loathing, whose only friend came in a corked bottle. How she wished she could have been born to a different mother.
“No, don’t worry about it. Come to think about it, you forgetting might’ve saved my life,” she hissed, regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth.
Her mother turned to look at her with tired, bloodshot eyes. “You’re never going to stop blaming me, are you?” she sighed.
“That’s not what I said.”
“Well you might as well have!” her mother snapped, her cheeks flushing so that they almost matched the shade of the wine in her hand. “You think I don’t blame myself? You think I don’t wake up every morning and hate myself for what I did to him? But there’s nothing I can do to make him come back, Heather! I would do anything to get him back, but I never will.” Her voice faltered as she spoke and her lips began to tremble almost as much as the hand holding the glass. As the last four words left her mouth, two fat tears rolled from her eyelids and embedded themselves in the deep grooves of her cheeks.
Heather too felt tears well in her eyes, and she fought unsuccessfully to prevent them from spilling over. That Night came back to her vividly, wrenching her back through time.
They were coming home from a family party. The sangria had been flowing all night long, as it always did at Heather’s aunt’s house on Christmas. As usual, her parents had argued over who should make the hour-long drive home, but this time her mother came out victorious. Six year old Heather, unable to keep her eyelids open past midnight, dozed off in the backseat. She dreamed peaceful six year old dreams—that is, until she woke to find herself in the midst of a nightmare: the car jerking back and forth uncontrollably; her small frame being tossed about; her father screaming, “Watch out! Watch out!”; the sound of tires screeching . . .
Then came the tree.
Suddenly Heather was in hysterics. As tears slid down her face, she stretched out her arms in her mother’s direction, longing for an embrace. She too wanted her father back, but she wanted more than that. She wanted a normal life with a normal mother. She wanted to no longer feel embarrassed to be related to the woman who had raised her. She wanted her mom to be a mom for once. Right now she needed that more than ever.
Her mother stumbled out of her chair, eager to comfort her crying child. But as she stood, she knocked the bottle of wine from the table in her clumsiness. It clattered to the floor, alarming both mother and daughter, but did not shatter. In her dazed state, her mother looked from Heather to the bottle and back to Heather again.
Heather watched in horror as her mother bent down, picked up the fallen bottle, and cradled it in her arms like a baby. Forgetting her distraught daughter, the woman turned and poured the last of the bottle’s contents into her glass and slumped into the armchair once again.
“I wish it had been you instead of him,” Heather cried. Her mother turned to face her, as if just remembering she was there. “But nothing bad ever happens to the driver.”