In their drunken stupor, they suddenly realise I might not make it. That I might not want to stay. And so, they beg — "Please don’t leave us. We can’t live without you."

And I wonder… Why?

Is it because they need someone to pick up the shattered pieces they leave in their wake? Someone to cook and clean, to do the quiet, thankless work of holding things together? Is it because someone has to put their drunk, heavy bodies to bed while the baby cries in the next room, hungry for something — anything — that feels safe?

If I disappear, who will carry the weight?

But the thing is — when the alcohol wears off, so does their memory. Their sorrow, their promises, their pleas… all vanish like mist. The damage they’ve done becomes a distant blur in their minds.

But not for me.

No, I carry it all. I hold the aftermath. I cradle the consequences in my arms like a child — weeks, months, sometimes years later. The bruises on my spirit linger long after their hangovers fade.