My mother stood at the basement door, the door we used so that we wouldn't mess up the upstairs, and screamed at us: "You kids are driving me crazy! No help! I don't get any help from you! I could have a wreck on the way to work and die because I'm so tired because you don't care! Why don't you love me?"

A swish and a slam punctuated her exit, but the words still rang in the air. The three of us stood there and drank in the sad, sinking, sick feeling that lingered. It stung our lungs and felt like death. It was like a combination of black licorice and putrid, rotting flesh. We all felt sick... The air felt sick. It was familliar, but uncomfortable.

This had become an increasingly predictable part of our life. I sank further into intertia and self-loathing. My brother's ever-intensifying hatred was reinforced. My sister, who had been terrified since birth, was more terrified. We just stood like deer in headlights and tried to decide what to do. No one wanted Mom to die, but a new thought had dawned on me in recent weeks... I wondered what would happen if she died. Would it be better if she did? When the thought ran through my mind it was chased by intense, searing pain and the realization of the permanance of death and life without a mother.