Siblings Ashley and Amber Peterson created a Mother’s Day drinking game wherein every time their mother was withering, condescending, manipulative, or gaslighting toward them the girl receiving the emotional abuse would take a drink. If their brother, the youngest, received golden child praise or demonstrations of blatant misogyny, they both had to drink. They had to take two drinks if the golden child praise was for something related to entitlement.
“It was meant to be fun,” says Ashley when our media team is allowed to see her at the hospital two days after the game’s rather unprecedented beginning and end.
“I can’t believe they would do this to me—on Mother’s Day of all days. My sweet little Ambrose would never do that,” says mother Lorna Peterson. “Don’t tell them I said that. Don’t tell them I said they were petty that they’ve always been petty and jealous of my beautiful golden-haired son. Is the child not a god?” (It should be noted that the “child” Ambrose is 32 years old.)
“I don’t know. I thought it was kind of funny. Kinda jealous they didn’t involve me,” says Ambrose, “of course, they don’t involve me because according to my therapist, I’m like, toxically codependent on mom, so obviously, I can’t be trusted. And Dr. Obvious is right. I can’t be trusted because even though I have awareness, I don’t have a clue how to implement it, and because I’m constantly managing mom’s emotions, I can’t safely investigate how I feel about any of this because there’s so much rage inside of me. Phew. So, yeah. I’ll sell out in a heartbeat to stay in mom’s favor. I mean, of course I would. I’ve seen the way she shits all over those two (Ashley and Amber), so…yeah…the game was hilarious. Mom had it coming. But, uh…don’t tell her I said any of that.”
“She said we were petty and jealous of Ambrose?” Ashley rolls her eyes and looks away, clearly trying to choose the words pushing against pressed lips. In a clipped staccato, Ashley adds, “We are not jealous of Ambrose. We are just annoyed that he indulges her instead of setting her straight. Like if you want to be with the siblings, you have to play for our team. You can’t be out there turning coat, Judas.”
“It’s kind of nice that he at least knows why he’s excluded…and that he also sees through Mom,” notes Amber.
When asked what happened, accounts vary. The game, as previously described, merited the girls taking a drink only when their mom was hurtful somehow. What they failed to anticipate was how hurtful their mother would be before the end of appetizers.
“So, we’re standing around the kitchen island, and Ashley’s gift for mom—a painting that she made her…Ashley’s a professional artist…is propped up right there, and Mom comes in, and she just looks at it and kind of goes, ‘huh’ and then goes to top off her mimosa with more prosecco,” Jessica explains.
“I take a drink—totally empty stomach, which I know better, but the house already smells like the lasagna is nearly ready, so I’m still holding back on the prosciutto and the caprese.”
“Fatal mistake,” Amber interjects.
“Anyway,” Ashley continues, “then Mom just starts in on ‘did you see in the family newsletter where Ambrose’s intramural team won the came in second for the community soccer league?’”
“Oh god, the newsletter.”
“Wait—you really think she was bragging? I thought she was just rubbing my mediocrity in my face,” says Ambrose.
“Probably a little bit of both,” Amber says. “Like she’s totally dismissing Ashley’s painting that’s literally right in front of her, blazing past recent awards…”
“Assuming she remembers that I won anything,” Ashley interjects.
“Right, so she’s snubbing Ashley by blatantly praising your menial accomplishment—which could, sure, also be a dig at the fact that you’re a total failure to launch by her design but then not saying a single complimentary thing about neither Ashley nor me because God forbid she not act jealous just once. Just once could she be a real mother instead of petty and misogynistic?”
“Breathe, Amber,” says Ashley. “So, back to the story…we both had to drink when she did that.”
“Just remember—anything you say and do can and will end up summarized terribly for the newsletter,” Ambrose chimed in.
“This is going to go down epically,” moans Amber.
“We’re all standing around the appetizers, and that’s when Mom turns to Amber, just torpedoes her with, ‘Well, I’d been hoping that I’d get an announcement about grandchildren this Mother’s Day, but clearly,’ and she just waves her hand as if to say, ‘oh you’re drinking, so clearly you’re not pregnant’,” says Ashley from her hospital bed.
“I have been doing cycles of IVF and have been struggling to conceive with my husband for nearly two years. Our mother is well aware of this. Suffice to say, I had to take a drink,” Amber explains.
“We stayed pretty well-paced on the drinks,” says, “Ashley, but Amber was eating, and I wasn’t. Oops.”
“Amateur, rookie mistake there, Ash,” says Ambrose.
“Yes, well, thank you for that advice, professional party boy.”
“Shots fired. You’re not wrong. It makes me feel very angry at mom that I am so disabled in so many ways. I’m supposed to be a man, but I have to stay here and still be her little boy, too? I want to tell her off, but then she says she loves me so much, and she’d be so hurt if she knew how she made me feel. I am so torn on the inside, but I don’t know how to express that without ripping the door off its hinges, so instead I will just smile and keep my mouth shut and just do what I’m told because fuck me, am I right? The call really is coming from inside the house.”
“Mom is not going to feel hurt if you tell her off, Ambrose,” says Amber.
“She’d have to feel for that to happen,” mutters Ashley.
Amber continues, “She’ll just attribute it to you having a nervous breakdown and will dismiss everything you said as you having a hard time despite the fact that you have absolutely nothing cataclysmic to be struggling with. No offense.”
“None taken! I don’t take offense…I just take everything else. Hahaha…it’s so funny because clearly I never had a chance. Hilarious! Lucky me!”
“Any time we just can’t not lose our shit, Mom just asks if we’re on our periods,” Ashley says, “And it’s like no, woman, I am just at my wits end trying to get an emotion out of you that isn’t blatant contempt.”
“So, I think it was the reality that the lasagna took over an hour after the game began to be finished, and by that time, I was toast,” says Ashley.
“But you gave one hell of a roast,” said Ambrose.
“Ashley lost her shit on everyone. It was like that scene in Liar Liar, and she was just like, ‘moocher’ and ‘kiss ass’ to Ambrose and ‘narcissistic sociopath’ and ‘covert narcissist’ and ‘dangerous’ to Mom…it was epic. She even roasted dad, and he’s dead. She called him ‘lazy’, which was just the best irony. I was laughing hysterically.”
“So was I,” agreed Ambrose.
“It was just that after she was done she decided it was time to leave, and she forgot that Mom’s kitchen is up some stairs, so she opened the door and fell right down a half flight of stairs.”
“I broke my leg, and I’m a little banged and bruised up. If I hadn’t knocked myself out, I’m sure they wouldn’t have taken me to the hospital.”
“I mean, it’s good that they pumped your stomach just in case. You drank a lot,” Ambrose says.
“Oh, no, Mom definitely didn’t come to the hospital. She’s upset with me for ruining Mother’s Day,” Ashley replies to one of our final questions before our follow-up with Lorna in her fatal kitchen.
“I’ll let her visit me when she’s released. I’m not going to see her in the hospital. She’s the child. She’s supposed to come to me, and after that little stunt, she owes me a huge apology—not some doodle. I mean, what is this?” says Lorna, gesturing at Ashley’s Mother’s Day gift, a tromp l’eoil of a marble Renaissance woman watching her marble child at play on a surreal and lurid Dali-esque background. It should be noted that Ashley’s pieces sell for tens of thousands of dollars.
“What did I hear in her speech? Well, she’s got a nasty heart—so much anger at her siblings. I wish she didn’t envy my confidence or fortitude so much. She’s got plenty of potential. I’ve always told her, though, that she’s so insecure. Really. Bless her heart. I don’t know where she gets that from.”
Lorna adds, “I plan to write all about it in the newsletter. The piece will be called, ‘Cruel and selfish daughters ruin grieving widow’s Mother’s Day with alcoholic shenanigans’. I’m going to be very honest in it. Actually, you should subscribe to the newsletter—keep in touch. Are we done here? Good. Bye.”