TRIGGER WARNING: If you are or have a loved one who is an addict I suggest you skip this chapter. I'm sending you love and healing if this does relate to you <3

[Wesley's POV]

As soon as I walked in, Michael appeared from the police station hallway. He was expecting me.

"Michael," I said in greeting.

"Thanks for coming down doctor." He turned and made his way down the hall, he trusted that I was following him. 

"I don't have a choice. She's my mother." He ignored the bitterness in my voice. 

"She's been found guilty on two counts of theft and possession." When we reached a closed-door he stopped to look at me. "It's either two years or bail."

Then he opened the door and I saw my mother in handcuffs, sitting at the only desk in the room. The tiny window on the wall behind her was doing a terrible job of letting the afternoon light in. There was a lone light bulb hanging by two wires above her. It was so low that if she stood up she would knock it. I was no electrical engineer, but that looked like a hazard.

Michael flipped a switch and the bulb loudly flickered before turning on. This made Dana look up. She looked tired, her blue eyes looked like still waters. Like when you spot the ocean from a distance. She looked tired. The blonde hair I had inherited from her was greasy. Her clothes looked like she had slept in them several times. Even though she looked like a mess, this was good because I had definitely seen worse. I had seen her on days her skin was dull and sagging against her bone structure. I'd seen her on days she was so high she couldn't keep her eyes open, but I couldn't let her sleep because I was afraid she wouldn't wake up. I'd seen her on days when it looked like her soul was dead, like she was a vessel waiting to take her last breath.

At least now, she looked alive. Tired but alive.

"Hi Wesley." Her voice sounded coarse, like someone had rubbed sandpaper against her vocal cords. She just sat there unapologetically staring me down.

"Same shit, different story Dana." It was hard to get the words past the lump in my throat. You never get used to the pain of watching a loved one lose to addiction. It's like you're reaching your hand out to them, but they just won't take it. No matter how hard you screamed and begged, they just won't take it.

Michael muttered something about giving us a moment. I didn't know he was gone until I heard the door close. I sat across from her, scanning her face for any proof of remorse.

"You don't even care." I whispered bitterly.

"I wish I could Wesley." She sniffed and quickly rubbed her nose. "I wish I could."

In the face of emotional stress, age and time don't mean a thing. I had spent years trying to get over the emotional damage my mother had caused. I had spent thousands on psychiatrists, hoping they'd help me unravel it all. Eventually, I thought time and distance were the answer. I thought as I get older, the anger that fueled me to guard my heart would weaken.

But that's not the case, sitting across from my mother forced nine-year-old me to show up and he brought with him a deadly cocktail of emotions. The anger, the fear, the hurt, the frustration. I could feel it all like it was just yesterday.

"I should let them lock you up and let you rot there. I don't think I want to save you this time."

She laughed, but not with humour. "I've been a prisoner to my addiction for a very long time Wesley, sending me to prison is nothing compared to what I've done to myself."

"And what about what you've done to me? It feels like I'm the only one here fighting for your life, you don't care!"

"Believe me, I want to. I just..." I saw a flicker of emotion in the eyes, like a lone fish jumping up for air. If I blinked I would've missed it. "I'm tired Wesley. I don't think I'm going to win this fight."

I didn't know what to say to that, this was the first time she had admitted she might not ever change. Usually she'd swear up and down that she was sorry, that she was trying. When she didn't feel my father or I believed her she'd start begging for help. I knew that dance very well.

This, I didn't.

"I love you Wesley. I really do. You have to believe that I am sorry for what I've put you through." The worst part of watching your mother, your primary caregiver, come and go is that you associate most relationships to be like that. I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop with everyone, never fully giving it my all.

I realised at that moment that, that's how I was with River. I had one foot in and one foot out. I may not be a drug addict but I was a lot like my mother. How she made me feel, was how I made River feel. I know that now...

"I really liked her, you know." My mother nodded slowly, knowing who I was speaking about. "And you ruined that for me."

"If you're insinuating that your issues with River are my fault, you're out of your mind my boy. That poor girl came to me because of you. Because you were emotionally unavailable." She pointed an accusatory finger at me and my anger spiked.

"And who do you think that's because of Mom?!" I spat out the word mom like it was bitter.

"I may not have been the perfect mother Wesley but I always showed up. Even though I was fighting my battles, you knew I loved you because I showed up. Even when your father moved you away from me, I found a way to show up! I may have been a high, tweaking mess but I showed up for you!" Her eyes reddened and her eyes got glossy. It forced tears to spring in mine. 

"Every time I got the chance to tell you I love you, I did! And I'm sorry you had to see me like that but I know you knew I loved you. Your father on the other hand, has always been emotionally unavailable. He may have been there, but he wasn't there..."

I hated to admit it, but my mother was right. She showed me the best way she could that she loved me. I think that was part of the reason why I almost always did what she wanted, why I always forgave her. I kept telling myself that this wasn't her fault.

Even though it was. She may need help but it was only her who could help herself. That's a harsh reality all loved ones of an addict have to face.

She was also right about my dad. His death was still fresh but he had been gone for a long time. My dad had always been the provider, I can't remember ever wanting anything because he always made sure I had it but he wasn't there. I can't tell you what his favourite colour was or what he had on his bucket list. He was too busy playing the role of a father from an emotional distance to ever let me really know him.

I know he loved me, even if he didn't say it.

"We had you when you were really young Wesley," My mother reached across the table to gently grab mine. "We didn't know what we were doing but please know we did the best we could. I'm sorry. We've made a lifetime of mistakes with you and I'm so so sorry." 

I've had my fair share of therapy, mostly because the hospital required us to do so. Every time I answered questions about my childhood the conversation of the 'inner child' came up. They always made me imagine myself as a child and whatever age I turned up as, was who I was just before the trauma.

I was nine every single time. I was nine when I became aware of my mother's addiction. I was nine when I became aware of how it made me feel. I was nine when I understood why we moved around a lot. I was nine when I started making excuses for her. I was nine when I started making excuses for my dad.

And right now, listening to my mother apologise to me, I was nine again. It was him who was accepting her apology and hopefully with time I would catch up. I had spent so many years wanting to be like my father, because in my mind he was everything my mother was not. Strong-willed and fearless. 

The strangest thing was, today I wanted to be like my mother. Not the addict part but the part that loved fearlessly. The person who loved to the best of her abilities, despite the battles she was fighting.

I left that visitation and decided to pay her bail.