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words that I could receive without an automatic rejection. I rapped my knuckles on the front door which was promptly answered by my dad. He actually looked good, which surprised me. His eyes were clear. He had put on enough weight to give his cheeks shape and put a cuddly pudge over the top of his belt. His head of curly blond hair was receding and grey, making him look a few years older than the fifty-seven he had recently turned. He was a bear of a man, tall, wide shoulders, and legs like tree trunks. I always thought of him as my very own big, cuddly teddy bear.
    “Pumpkin,” he said with something surprisingly akin to pride in his voice. He pulled me into his arms, and I hugged him back, always loving these moments of sober clarity that my dad offered me. He was far more affectionate and emotional than my mother, and I was ashamed to say that I found loving my dad far easier than loving my mom.
    “Hey, Daddy, you look great.” My words were honest and full of encouragement. He did look absolutely wonderful, better than I had seen him in a long time. My father’s affection for liquor meant more often than not his meals were of the liquid variety. The fact he looked so good could only mean Mom was doing well, more than likely sober. My father’s health seemed to mirror my mom’s. Perhaps we could enjoy one of those scarce moments of a relatively normal family Christmas. My mood swung about, happiness seeping into my heart. Dad took my bags and led me into the house that was just as I remembered it, perhaps a tad cleaner though, another sign that my mom was sober. My eyes danced quickly over the familiar surroundings before I stepped through the doorway into the kitchen. My mother was leaning against the door that led to the back yard, a cigarette hanging from her lips. In stark contrast to my father, she looked terrible, which caught me completely by surprise. The sight of my healthy father and the clean home had lulled me into a false sense of security. My heart plummeted at the sight of my mom. Her cheeks were sunken and hollow, her eyes cloudy and distant. Her skin was blotchy, her fingers unconsciously scratching at an exposed sore on her arm. This was possibly the worst I had ever seen her.
    “Hi, Momma,” I whispered with disbelief. I cast my dad a worried frown, and his look was pleading, asking me not to make a big deal of it. The room was filled with an awkward silence, my mother choosing not to answer me. It was well into the evening, Christmas Eve, and I noted dinner hadn’t been started. “You want me to help get dinner started?” I offered, moving around the familiar kitchen. I knew it well, having made most of my own dinners here since I was a child.
    “I ordered takeout, should be here soon,” she waved off my offer with a hoarse voice. At least we were eating, I thought wryly. My mother’s glazed eyes looked me up and down, and I wondered what she saw. From the bitter curl of her lip, I assumed it was not pleasant. “When did ya get in?” she asked, drawing back another long inhale on her cigarette. My dad disappeared, most likely to deposit my bags somewhere and give us a moment of privacy. To be honest, I felt far too vulnerable without his presence and hoped he wouldn’t be gone too long. My mom was stoned; I could see it in her eyes. On what I had no idea. My mother’s drug of choice depended on price and availability. She would consume anything from marijuana to heroine, unlike me who had a special affinity with cocaine. From the look of her, I would say my mom was currently under the influence of heroin or meth.
    “About an hour ago, Cain and I had to sort out rental cars then we went our separate ways.”
    “Huh,” my mother said. “You still with that boy? That’s a surprise.” Her words unfortunately didn’t shock me. It was no secret that the Everett’s were a family of wealth and prestige in this town, and it had always astonished my mother how Cain and I managed to find