Drunk Mom Novels & Stories

Maybe I just worked too much and got blind to how badly her body had changed. It was as if I were looming over the sight of me sitting in a chair, backed up to the sink as she rinsed the dye from my head. We were both drunk and in a fit of giggles. I had never drank, but we’d gotten into a stash of vodka my mom’s latest boyfriend had left. We’d get in trouble for it if we couldn’t convince him that he’d finished off in his drunken stupor from the night before. “Mom’s gonna lose her shit,” Greta giggles.

Or someone. "Mom, how do you do it?" I said to her as she was typing up a text for dad, "With dad being gone all the time... how do you do stay... sane?" Mom put her phone down and gave me a look as if she was studying me. She then gave me a smile and said, "Honey, I drink a lot of wine," "Mom?" I gaped at her.

It felt like I was being forced with the alcohol down my throat. Suddenly my door flew open, I didn't have to turn to know who it was. It was her ranting as always. She was more like Chloe's defense lawyer, always interceding on Chloe's behalf. "You are at it again drinking yourselves to stupor. Ethan, what's wrong with you?Get a grip on yourself. How can you act so stupid for an ordinary girl. You can get any girl whenever you want and however you want" My mom said, sounding disappointed.

Her mom asks calmly while staring at her. Everette stands up in a jiffy. "No, mom. It was a mistake. It feels like…. I was hot." She stutters. "I feel so hot. I think I was a drunk and drugged mom. I was drugged." "Shut up! I'm not your mom. Not to an immature lady. Are you still a child? You are drugged? Can't you just own up to it that it was your fault?" Her mom screams bitterly at her. Everette's heart breaks with her mom's words.

The drive home was proving to be an awkward one. Morgan, thankfully, had not been sick again but had done nothing but moan loudly the whole time we had been in the car, and I had to listen to my Mum talking to her like she was a little baby. Reassuring her she would be okay, because Morgan was truly acting like she was dying. Jeez, it was self-inflicted, and it isn’t like most people don’t experience it at some point in their life. She had drunk too much. That was all. Yet here she was acting like she was at death's door, facing her demise.

My hands shake as I zip it up, my knuckles white. “Aiden? What the hell are you doing?” Mom’s voice slurs from the doorway. She looks like shit—her hair is untidy, her eyes bloodshot, and she's holding another bloody bottle of alcohol. She lunges forward and tries to grab the bag from me. “You can’t just take her things! She’s my daughter!” I spin on her, my fury exploding. “Your daughter!? You forgot her meds, Mom! She could’ve died! You drink yourself stupid every night and leave her to fend for herself. What kind of mother does that?”

Pulling away, she looked worse than the last time I saw her, when she was detoxing at the clinic, I last saw her in, but it never sticks, she was back on the wagon, and completely piss drunk. "Mom, sit down, you can barely stand." I hiss out annoyed, guiding her to a seat. She shoves herself away from me and stumbles backward until she grips the edge of the bar for support She slams her hand down on the bar, barely standing. "NEXT ONES ON US!" She yells out, causing everyone inside to raise their drinks and cheer at her. What the fuck is she doing? "Mom, that's enough." I sit her down. "I told you already, I don't have money." I hissed out, causing her to wave me off passively.

Max “Hm, hmm, hmmm. Look at you. A drunken mess.” A grating voice breaks through my consciousness. I open my eyes and see my mother standing over me as she looks down disapprovingly. I shift to my right about sitting up, but it makes my brain feel as if it’s slammed against my skull. I settle back down on the bed. Okay, new plan, no moving. I drank too much last night. “Still living a life of debauchery, I see,” Mom says.

The glass is sticky with residue, fingerprints smeared across the surface in patterns that suggest desperation rather than celebration. "Mom?" I call again, my voice cracking with rising panic. "Dad?" I find her in the living room. Mom lies crumpled on the cream sofa like a broken doll, her usually immaculate hair tangled around her face in greasy strands. Her silk blouse is stained with what looks like vomit, and the smell of alcohol radiates from her unconscious form in waves that make me gag. This isn't my mother. My mother doesn't drink beyond an occasional glass of wine at dinner. My mother doesn't pass out on furniture or leave the house in chaos. My mother is elegant, controlled, the