I’m sitting with the folding doors open, appreciating the sunshine while you sleep in, yet again. Our children have been excitedly planning how they will win the water fight you promised to have with them at 10am. Now, at 11.30am, they are feeling despondent. We have been together for more than 20 years and parents for nearly nine, and you have always been a problem drinker. The drunkest man at every party, falling over and acting obnoxiously – an embarrassment, and a total contrast to the sweet, kind and fun person you are when sober. The person I glimpse every day before you go to work gives me hope that, if you could just stick with sobriety, family life would be joyful. We didn’t use the word alcoholic until five years ago, when you first admitted you needed help. It’s been a rollercoaster ever since, with short, sober periods quickly spiralling into a life dictated by alcohol. Triggers seem to be everywhere: a bad day at work, time off work, me being away, me having a drink with friends. I can tell when it has started again: your personality changes instantly; instead of catching yourself interrupting me, I get a detailed monologue about your working day, without you asking about mine. I should be grateful that you’re working, given the number of jobs you’ve lost in recent years. The hardest part is the loneliness. During lockdown, it falls on me to try to educate and entertain our school-age children, manage our dwindling finances, organise our food shopping, keep on top of the housework. There’s no affection and we haven’t had sex for 18 months. I don’t know why we’re still together. Sheer stubbornness on my part, I think; determination to prove friends and family wrong. Life is passing me by, but I can’t give up on you. Not yet. I’m bound by fear that, if we separate, you might spiral further and affect our children even more than you have already. So, I guess we’ll continue to live in disharmony. Me trying to shield the children from the impact of this progressive disease; trying to support you without enabling; trying to look after myself and my own mental health; trying to avoid friends and family seeing you getting worse again. I expect one of your growing number of health issues will soon lead to me becoming your carer. For now, I will sit here enjoying the sun, and try to be grateful for what I have. • We will pay £25 for every letter we publish. Email family@theguardian.com, including your address and phone number. We are able to reply only to those whose contributions we are going to use.