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I was getting ready for work, hungover as usual, when my six-year-old daughter walked into the kitchen.
She started making herself breakfast.
Not like a normal kid would—messily, asking for help.
She moved like an adult who'd done this a thousand times.
She poured her own cereal, made her lunch, packed her backpack.
All while I sat there holding my head, trying not to throw up.
"Daddy, do you want me to make you coffee?" she asked.
I looked at her.
Really looked at her.
This tiny person taking care of herself because I couldn't.
"How long have you been doing this?" I asked.
She shrugged.
"Since Mommy moved out."
That was eight months ago.
"But who helps you get ready for school?"
She looked confused.
"I help myself. You're always sick in the mornings."
My stomach dropped.
I started paying attention after that.
She'd tiptoe around me when I was passed out on the couch.
Turn off the TV if it was too loud.
Hide my beer bottles when her friends came over.
Then I found her school folder.
Inside were notes I'd supposedly signed for field trips, parent conferences, school events.
My signature, but I didn't remember writing any of them.
She'd been forging my name for months.
"Emma, did you sign these?"
She nodded like it was normal.
"You were sleeping when they were due. I didn't want to get in trouble."
I kept digging.
Found a note from her teacher asking about my "emergency surgery" that kept me from the Christmas play.
Another about my "work travel" that made me miss the parent breakfast.
She'd been covering for me.
Making up elaborate lies to explain why her dad never showed up.
The worst part was finding her piggy bank empty.
When I asked where her birthday money went, she said,
"I bought groceries when we ran out of food."
A six-year-old was buying groceries because I'd spent the grocery money on beer.
But that wasn't even the breaking point.
One afternoon, I came home early and found her on the kitchen floor.
She was practicing falling down and getting back up.
"What are you doing?"
"Mrs. Johnson from next door asked if I ever fall down the stairs," she said.
"I told her no, but I wanted to make sure I could get up if I did."
My blood went cold.
The neighbor was checking if I was hurting her.
"Has anyone else asked you questions like that?"
She thought for a second.
"The lady at school asked if I have bruises. And why I'm always tired."
Child services was watching us.
I realized she'd been coached on what to say.
How to hide my drinking.
How to make everything look normal.
That night, I checked her room and found a backpack hidden under her bed.
Inside were clothes, snacks, and a note written in crayon:
"If Daddy gets too sick, go to Mrs. Johnson's house."
She had an escape plan.
I sat on her floor holding that backpack, realizing my six-year-old was planning for the day I'd become too dangerous to live with.
One night, I heard her on the phone with her mom.
"Daddy's sleeping again," she whispered.
"No, he didn't eat dinner either."
I was listening from the hallway, and she said something that broke me.
"Mommy, is Daddy going to die like Uncle Mike did?"
My brother had died from liver failure two years earlier.
I never knew she remembered that.
Or understood what it meant.
But then she said something worse.
"If Daddy dies, will I have to live with the sad people?"
She meant foster care.
My six-year-old was planning for my death.
The next morning, I poured every bottle down the drain.
Called my ex-wife and told her I was getting help.
My daughter watched me throw everything away.
When I finished, she hugged my leg and said,
"Does this mean you won't be sick anymore?"
I looked down at this kid who'd been raising herself while I poisoned myself to death.
"Yeah, baby. Daddy's not going to be sick anymore."
That was three years ago.
Haven't touched a drop since.