It was shortly after my real dad—Devin and Josie forever—died in battle in Afghanistan when the fear started. I was ten, and the day was crystal clear in my memory. Mom’s new boyfriend Ray stopping by, bringing candy for me and coke for Mom. He left her passed out on the floor, and hours later, as lunchtime turned into dinnertime, my tiny tummy rumbled for something of more substance than the empty orange box of Reece’s Pieces. I shook her arm, trying to wake her. I screamed and cried until the neighbor, Mr. Bennett, overheard me and came running over. Ten minutes later an EMT revived her, finger poised to dial social services to come take me. But Mr. Bennett came to my rescue that day, came to Mom’s rescue too, as he assured the EMT he was family and would take care of me until Mom was better. Soon after that, Mr. Bennett became Bennett, then Bennett became Dad. And Dad became the buffer between me and the constant pain and humiliation of having a druggie mother.

That wasn’t the only time life with Mom left me scarred and scared. Like when she took me out grocery shopping, only we never made it into the store. We got as far as the parking lot when she did a hit of something that knocked her out, and as the summer temperatures climbed, I yelled from the backseat for her to wake up. A kindly store associate saved me when she called Dad to come get us. A week later Dad sent Mom to rehab, but it wasn’t enough to change her. I had a feeling nothing would ever change her. By this point I was tired of being saved from my own mother.

Her own selfish feelings were her drug. Whatever made her feel, regardless of how it damaged her daughter. Now plural daughters.

When I had found the positive pregnancy test in the bathroom garbage can, I was elated. My Pollyannaish thirteen-year-old imagination conjured a magical bond between mother and embryo, one even addiction couldn’t break. But pregnancy didn’t stop Mom until near the end, when the guilt of her crimes against her unborn finally set in. It was three of the best months of my life post-real-dad, packed with endless hours of classic tearjerkers like Love and Basketball and Beaches, and every chick flick in between. Just me and Mom and her huge quivering belly, movie-sized candy and overflowing popcorn, snuggled on the couch giggling like the girls we wanted to be.

Then today happened. The baby came and broke her.

“I just needed something for the pain, Bennett,” Mom cried out. She wasn’t asking. She was explaining away what she had already done, drugged out so bad Dad couldn’t reason with her.