I used to be the soup in her bowl, dripping from her lips, warming her tongue, tickling her throat. As the soup stretched through her veins, a familiar numbing sensation calmed her body, while her mind was lost in blistering euphoria. Sighing, she would put the bowl back on the table, unaware of my presence. As she pushed the nearly empty bowl further toward the middle of the table, I could feel her pushing me further into the dark corners of her mind. I had done my work in recharging her system, but she would never admit it. She said a daughter’s purpose was to revive those who had given her life. Then again, she was never really there to notice anyway. On her darker days, she would follow me into the closet I called a room, knocking over pictures and tables, stumbling, laughing about her perfect antidote. Soup. One part tomato, three parts tequila. The drinking helped her forget the pain, I helped her forget the drinking, and the soup helped her forget me. I become the silent cure, mixed in with her toxic existence. Without me, the soup would be as empty as the life she lived. Somehow, I could feel the strength flowing out of my body with every pathetic day alone in a dirty apartment, every panicked night in the doorway of a bathroom reeking of bile. I knew the environment of my youth was poisonous, but I had a job to do. I had a responsibility. My daughter will never be the soup.