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didn’t mean—”
    “You don’t know anything!” I yell, wrenching away from him, rage pounding in my ears. “She wasn’t an alcoholic!”
    He sighs, sadly, pityingly. “Rose …”
    “She had Huntington’s disease , okay? That’s why I couldn’t just hop on a train, that’s why I dropped out of Sixth Form. She wasn’t an alcoholic —it wasn’t her fault—she had Huntington’s!”
    My heart racing, I run out the door, sprinting down the street, tears streaming down my face.
    I can’t go back—I can’t ever go back to how things were. Andy doesn’t want me—he feels sorry for me. He feels sorry for me because he thought my mum was an alcoholic ! That night, that awful, horrible night her life changed forever, mine effectively ended.
    And now she’s gone. She’s gone, and I’m left with nothing—no friends, no life, no future—
    And she wasn’t even my mother!

    My heart racing, I sprint into the garden, my stomach churning as I lunge for the flower bed.
    “Oh, sweetie.” Melissa appears beside me, brushing my hair back from my forehead. “Was it the punch? Did I make it too strong? Should I call your dad?”
    I shake my head vehemently, then immediately wish I hadn’t, as my stomach empties itself yet again. She rubs my back.
    “Oh, babe. You need a glass of water? Coffee?”
    “Water.” I nod weakly, clutching my belly.
    “Coming right up!” She grins, ruffling my hair. “Don’t worry, next time I’ll leave out the vodka. Or maybe the rum.” She kisses my forehead. “Maybe neither would be a good idea for a few days, though!”
    She winks and disappears into the house.
    I lean my head against the cold wall and close my eyes.
    I didn’t even have any freaking punch.

Chapter Four
    The Christmas wreath tumbles to the floor as I shove the front door open and lean my head against the cold glass. I close my eyes, struggling to catch my breath, to summon the strength to step inside, to face the house that’s no longer my home.
    Nearly everything had to be moved, cleared away or locked up after the diagnosis: anything Mum could trip over or smash into as the jerky movements— chorea —progressed; anything she could hurt herself, or anyone else, with when the paranoia set in; all our trinkets and ornaments, our throw rugs and photo frames and memories, all boxed up and stored in the garage, empty since we’d sold the Mini.
    The car was the biggest blow. By law, Mum had to tell the DVLA her diagnosis, and they made her retest. When she failed, that was it. They revoked her license.
    “This is crazy!” Mum screamed at the test center. “Even Jenson Button failed his driving test the first time—I demand a retake!” They refused. And without the car, in our little rural village, she lost her independence.
    So I deferred Sixth Form. Despite Nana’s protests about the importance of my education, I couldn’t bear the thought of Mum being stuck at home on her own. I wanted to be there for her, look after her, do my best to cheer her up. It wasn’t easy. I hated the way strangers stared at her wherever we went, nudging each other and whispering that she was crazy or drunk. But her mood swings were the worst.
    She’d be high as a kite one minute, then fly into an uncontrollable rage over the smallest thing. She got so angry because Neighbours was canceled one bank holiday that she started hurling things at the TV, and smashed the screen. I tried to calm her down, tried to explain, but there was no reasoning with her—she needed her routine and didn’t understand why she couldn’t watch her beloved soap. In the end Sarah’s husband, Steve, had to physically restrain her to stop her hurting herself. Then, when he finally let go, she called the police, showed them her bruises and had him arrested for assault.
    The only thing that seemed to calm her down was her cigarettes, but like with her temper, she didn’t seem to know when, or how, to stop. She’d just smoke one after