Page 55 of Single Dad's Fake Bride
I'd asked for more time to think about it, and he'd agreed without pressure or conditions. But time wasn't making thedecision easier. If anything, it was making everything more complicated.
I tookMom to her first AA meeting held in the basement of St. Mary's Catholic Church, a windowless room with fluorescent lighting and the persistent smells of coffee and old carpet. Folding chairs were arranged in a circle. A banner on the wall with the Serenity Prayer in faded blue letters hung on for dear life.
Mom had resisted coming. She'd argued that she wasn't ready, that she didn't want to sit around listening to other people's problems, that the whole thing was a waste of time. But the doctor had been clear—outpatient treatment required meeting attendance. No exceptions.
We took seats in the back row. Mom sat with her arms crossed, shoulders rigid, making it clear she was here under duress. I folded my hands in my lap and tried to look supportive rather than desperate.
The meeting leader was a woman named Carol, maybe sixty years old, with kind eyes and hands that never stopped moving. She opened with the usual readings, then asked if anyone was celebrating a milestone.
A man in the front row raised his hand. "Ninety days today."
The room erupted in applause. Mom flinched at the sound but didn't comment.
"Would you like to share anything about your journey so far?" Carol asked.
The man nodded, clearing his throat. "I keep thinking about my daughter. She's the one who found me that last time. Unconscious in the garage, car still running." His voice cracked."She was twelve. Twelve years old, and she had to make the decision to call 911 on her own father."
I felt Mom shift beside me, her posture softening slightly.
"She won't talk to me now," he continued. "Won't return my calls. But her mother says she's doing better in therapy. That's all I can ask for right now. That she's okay, even if I'm not part of her life anymore."
More people shared. A woman talked about her fifth time in detox, how she'd convinced herself each relapse was the last one. Another man described losing his job, his house, his relationship with his adult children.
"My grandson turned three last month," a woman named Beth said. "I missed his birthday party because my daughter doesn't trust me around him. She's afraid I'll show up drunk, or that I'll relapse and disappoint him later. She's probably right to be afraid."
Mom's arms uncrossed sometime during Beth's story. She sat forward slightly, actually listening instead of just enduring.
"I used to blame them," Beth continued. "My kids. I thought they were being cruel, punishing me for mistakes I was trying to fix. But the truth is, I broke their trust so many times that they don't believe me anymore. Even when I'm sober. Even when I'm trying."
After the meeting ended, Mom was quiet as we walked to the car. The evening air was cooler now, streetlights beginning to flicker on along the residential blocks.
"That man," she said finally. "The one whose daughter found him."
"What about him?"
"His daughter is going to remember that for the rest of her life." Mom's voice was barely above a whisper. "Finding him that way. Having to make that call."
I unlocked the car but didn't get in immediately. "Yes. She probably will."
"I did that to you?" She looked at me across the roof of the car. "Not the same way, but… how many times did you have to take care of me when you were too young to understand what was happening?"
The question felt like a dagger to the chest. I thought about ten-year-old me putting Mom to bed when she passed out on the couch. Thirteen-year-old me learning to forge her signature on school forms. Sixteen-year-old me getting my first job so we could keep the electricity on.
"It doesn't matter now," I said.
"It does matter." Mom got into the passenger seat, her hands trembling as she fastened her seatbelt. "I want to get better, Sadie. I really do. But I don't think I can do it alone this time."
Mom's admission brought tears to my eyes and I blinked them back. I started the engine but didn't put it in drive yet.
"What are you asking me?"
"I'm asking for help. Real help. Not just dumping out bottles and driving me to meetings, but… support. Time. Someone who believes I can actually do this."
My throat felt tight. "Mom."
"I know I don't deserve it. I know I've asked before and failed before. But I'm scared." Her voice broke on the last word. "I'm scared that if I don't get clean now, I'm going to die. And I'm scared that even if I do get clean, it might be too late to fix things between us. And I want grandbabies…" I heard the emotion in her tone, tears welling up before she could choke them back. Things she'd never exhibited before.
I stared at the dashboard, processing her words. She was asking for everything I didn't have. Time I couldn't spare. Energy I was already running out of. Faith I'd lost somewhere along the way.
