“Drink this,” she tells me, handing me a glass of tepid milky liquid. “Found some baking soda in the pantry. This’ll make you feel better.”

I balance myself on floppy feather pillows and drink the now-foaming concoction in a few big gulps.

“Thanks, babe,” I say. “Sorry about last night.”

The kindness melts from her face, replaced by her practiced, Oscar-worthy look of disappointment. I’ve seen her use it in the courtroom, turning to a jury when a witness states the wrong thing.

But, honestly, I am sorry.

She pretends to struggle for words. I know it’s a pretense, because my wife never has a shortage of opinions about every subject you can imagine.

Especially when it comes to me.

“You were drinking all day, Connor,” she says, letting out a leaking tire of a sigh. “All day. I should have left you at home. And I sure as hell shouldn’t have let you get your hands on that bottle of tequila.”

I wince at the word tequila.

“I don’t know,” I say.

Kristen sits on the edge of the bed. “You do know.”

She’s right. I do.

I want to remind her that she could help matters. Pouring me drinks and then later complaining about my alcohol consumption isn’t fair. I can’t tell her that. I know that she loves me, and really, this is my battle.

“Yeah,” I finally say. “I’ve got to stop.”

She could offer up a kind of “I’ve heard that before” retort, but thankfully, she holds back.

“That’s correct,” Kristen says, taking my glass. She’s full-on kind right now, a pendulum of emotions. All for me. Her smile is sad but genuine. She looks at me with those blue eyes that see through me. She loves me more than anything, but I know that my time with her could end at any moment for the mistakes that I have made. And the one I keep making. I need help. Treatment. I hate that word because it makes me feel like a weakling, but after last night, I think there will be no more second chances with her. And when she makes up her mind, there’s no changing it. I’ve often wished that I could be so sure of things too. But I’m not. I’m too easy. Too malleable. I’m a ball of unbaked dough. My wife is a rolling pin. Despite some major ups and downs, I admit that the dynamic has somehow worked for us. I didn’t always think that it would, but what do I know? She’s a lawyer. I’m a waiter. A really good one. But, yeah, a waiter.

“I couldn’t do it for my dad,” she reminds me, underscoring the fact that she is the adult child of an alcoholic, which has framed much of her personal story. “I can’t do it for you, Connor. You’re going to need to take each and every step toward recovery on your own. I’ll be there, right behind you, but I cannot lead you through this.”