Whining Gets You Wine

CONTENT WARNING: Child Abuse

When I am seven or eight years old. My family is sitting down for dinner and, to my excitement, my mom and step-dad bought a two-litre bottle of Coca-Cola today. Having any kind of soda or junk food in the house is a miracle, so I am understandably eager to get myself a glass of bubbly goodness.

I wait until I have eaten some of my dinner before asking about it.

Me: “Can I have some pop?”

My step-dad interrupts before my mom can say no.

Step-Dad: “Here, why don’t you try some of this first?”

He proceeds to grab an honest-to-goodness glass cup — which makes me excited as us kids only ever get plastic — and pours it half-full with a dark liquid from a glass bottle the adults have been drinking from. He hands it to me, and I naively proceed to take a large mouthful… only to spit it all back into the cup in disgust! It isn’t juice; it is WINE.

Me: “Eww! This is gross! I don’t want this!”

Mom: *Angrily* “You just can’t waste it! You need it to drink it all. Drink it and then you can have pop.”

Me: *Starting to get upset* “What? No, please! I just want some Coke. Can I please have that?”

My mom goes to say no again when my step-dad says, “Sure,” gets up, and grabs the soda bottle. I begin to feel better as he comes back to the table… but then he pours the soda INTO the cup of wine, filling it to the top! I can already feel myself begin to get upset again.

Mom and my step-dad both stare at me.

Mom & Step-Dad: “Well?!”

I hesitantly try a sip and, unsurprisingly, it’s worse than before. I put the cup down immediately. 

Me: “I can’t drink this! It’s gross!”

Mom: *Snapping* “You’re going to drink it all; do you understand me?! You asked for that and I’m not going to waste it just because you changed your mind!”

Me: *Beginning to cry* “I didn’t want this. I just wanted some Coke. Please, I just want some pop — not this other stuff!”

Mom: *Almost yelling now* “You’re going to finish that glass and I’m not going to hear another word out of you otherwise. I don’t care if you have to sit here all night; do I make myself clear?”

I didn’t bother protesting further, because that would have only resulted in getting punished for back-talk. Instead, I just sat there and cried. She did keep me at the table after everyone else finished eating, berating me on and off for a few hours as she cleaned up, while I just sobbed and sobbed. I only got sent to bed — that wine-soda monstrosity still untouched — because it was a school night.