I know who you are

I feel sad.

An hour or so ago, I told you that you have better things to do with your life than comfort drunks.

You smiled. You laughed it off as if it were nothing.

When you are a child and your mother's a drunk, I suppose the only thing you know how to do is hold her hair back from the vomit, undress her, put her to bed. To you, doing the same thing for a near stranger your own age is really no big deal.

Except it is a very big deal. It's a big deal because you've already been doing it for far too long. You've lost your entire childhood, or most of it, to mothering your mother. You've never had the benefit of naïveté children born to healthier families enjoy. You know things -- you know too much. You've experienced too much too soon. Your experiences limit you rather than set you free to become who you were meant to become.

You have been robbed.

This is why your smile and laughter are not appropriate.

This is why I repeated myself, "You have better things to do with your life than comfort drunks."

This is why, when you pushed me away, I hugged you anyway, until you hugged back.

I listened to you cry.

There is hope because you can still cry.