George parked her bike in the garage outside her house. She usually parks it in the lawn in front, but the temperature was dropping down fast and she did not want her bike to turn into a popsicle by next morning.

Her house was a grand, two-storeyed structure, removed from the main road, with a cobblestone pathway connecting them both. Bushes of purple rhododendron adorned either sides of the pathway, which was now glistening with frozen dew drops. The lawn sprawled to either side of the pathway like a green carpet, covered in thick growths in which bloomed flowers of different shades. From simple peonies to vibrant petunias, every inch of the grassy expanse was filled.

Most of these were planted by George's grandpa. He loved gardening, as much as her. He always was armed with a bunch of them on his visits. He was the one who had taught her the basics of gardening.

George loved gardening with her grandpa. They usually began just after breakfast and remained engrossed in it until late afternoon. She and her grandpa would kneel in the grass, covered in mud elbow deep, planting and weeding the entire land. A missed lunch was the only sacrifice that they often had to make.

"Plants are like babies, Georgie," her grandpa used to say, "They demand attention all the time. But they give more love than they receive."

When her grandparents stopped visiting, she threw herself to the business of taking care of the garden. She soon found that it was the only place where she could reconnect with the fond memories of the past that she shared with her grandparents. Thus she turned the garden into her canvas, and spent whatever time she could spare among her plants, weeding the flower beds, pruning the shrubs and planting more saplings.

Her dad though, was of the opinion that George was wasting her time. He found no rationale behind her passion towards gardening. He made his stance clear numerous times.

"You are forever cutting and weeding those grasses, Georgieva, but I will tell you one thing. You are wasting your time. No matter what you do, those flowers would wilt in a day or two. Those plants won't stand a chance in a heavy rain. And then what? All your efforts down the drain. Just like that."

She never disagreed out loud with her dad. So she kept quiet whenever her dad went on a ranting spree on why such "nonsense" did not deserve the time of day.

She knew why gardening was important to her. She understood why it will always be a part of her. She also acknowledged that it was something she could never explain to her dad, at least not without provoking him. Even if she managed to tell him her reasons, he would probably scoff at them for being "sentimental gibberish".

As he does with mom.

George cast an eye over the flowers and after being convinced that none of them required her immediate attention, she knocked the door twice and turned the doorknob to the right.

Silence greeted her.

When she told her teacher in the morning that her dad was out of station, she was not lying. He was on a business trip and would be away for the weekend. But the hush that now prevailed in the house was scary.

Where was her mom?

"Mom?", George called out as she stepped into the living room, closing the door behind her. The thud of the door travelled across the living room, adding to the sinking sensation she had been feeling since she got home.

The living room was dimly lit, despite the fact that the light outside was slowly fading out. She left her bag by the door and padded through the floors straight to the dining hall. She then turned right to the kitchen, hoping to see her mom cooking with her headphones, as she sometimes does.

The kitchen island looked clean and pristine, as if it has not been used for a long time. The mittens that she had used the previous day were still in the same position as she had left it.

George could feel a lump forming in her throat. A wave of panic crashed through her mind. Her chin wobbled.

"Mom? Where are y-you, mom?"

Her voice had acquired a shrillness to it. She was afraid, helpless and all alone.

As always.

She rushed back into the living room and took the spiralling staircase that led upstairs. The steps ended in a hallway with two rooms to the left and one to the right. The latter belonged to George. She wasted no time and went straight to the left, towards her parent's room, when suddenly, she heard a groan from the guest room that she had just passed.

She stopped in her tracks and retraced her path.

The door to the guest room was ajar, and through the crevice, George could see that the room was dark. This was because the curtains were closed, for the rooms were designed in such a way that light always seeped in through the windows, as long as there was a flicker of sunlight outside.

George's heart lurched.

She pushed the door wide open. The room was drowned in darkness and she could only make a faint silhouette of her mother, slouched against the closet door. She fumbled with the lights until she found the right one and turned it on.

"Mom...", the sound left her lips in a strained whisper.

The sight in front of her made her sway on her feet. Eyes drooping down, hair tumbling out of the bun, her mom sat with her shoulders hunched and her hands gripping tightly onto something.

A photo frame.

As she slowly made her way towards her mom, she knew exactly what picture it was that the frame held. When she was little, she had once gone to a fair with her parents. The only reason her dad took her mom and her along was because they were accompanied by one of his business associates and his wife. He wanted to make a good impression upon them and hence the family trip.

George was unconcerned with the reasons for it was her first time at a fair. She was awed by the rides, the stalls, the colours and even the smells that wafted to her tiny nose. Mr and Mrs Smith, who were with them, were amused by her excitement so much that they took it upon themselves to give her a full experience of the whole fair. She never had as fun as she did that day.

Coincidentally, as they soon learned, her grandparents too were present at the fair. Her happiness then knew no bounds. She could still remember how she had sprinted towards them, her hands flailing in the air.

"Grandpa, grandma! You are here too. Wow! Mom, dad, look! Grandpa and grandma are here as well! We can all have fun now. Oh...oh...and there's Mr Smith...and this is Mrs Smith. They are..."

"Calm down, Georgie", her grandpa had said, his voice laced with laughter as he gathered her in his arms, "We have all night now."

She was ecstatic. Her dad was not. Not even a bit. But he had to keep a lid on his true emotions, lest Mr and Mrs Smith found out and any hope for the business deal was wiped out.

The photo was taken at the fair. She remembered, for she was the one who had insisted for it. Her dad had really tried to talk his way out.

"Georgieva, be reasonable. We have guests with us. We can't bother them now, can we? We will take one the next time, alright?"

Little as she was, George knew a hollow promise when she heard one. So she stood her ground, knowing fully well that there will never be a next time. Her dad's face darkened. Finally, Mrs Smith interfered, which was a good thing, for it blew the air out of his fury.

"Mr Michael," she had said,"let her be. I, for one, think it is a good idea. Photos are the best journals. They keep our memories intact and bright, as the latter start fading with time. Don't you agree, James?"

"I do, sweetheart. Mr Michael, come now. For the child. For us. Let us all have one."

It was one among the few victories that George had ever tasted against her dad. She savoured it as well as she could.

In the photo, she was in the arms of her grandpa, with her grandma right beside. Her mom and dad stood to her right, a scowl on her dad's face, and a beaming smile on her mom's.

It was their only family photo, ever.

Now, as she watched her mom's trembling hand clutching the frame, and a bottle rolling to and fro under the bed, she felt something shatter inside her.

Her mother had relapsed.