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Illustration by Jane Demarest.

I’m the first in a long line of resilient Midwestern women not to marry an alcoholic, but to become one. The shadow in the veins of the men in my life slid for generations through both bloodlines and took shape in me.

My memory is fog. I’m blowing it away with words now to step back inside this moment, the end of the story, and also the beginning.

I round the block. My mother is outside, smoking a cigarette. She’s been waiting up for me. Just then I remember her finding me at the bar, pleading with me to come home. Could I have just called it a night and complied? No. Nothing stopped me once I started drinking. That’s alcoholism 101.

Now, here I come, a spectacle stumbling through her neighborhood of bungalows and vintage apartment buildings, yards full of lemon and persimmon trees, a tiny Eden.

“Krissy,” she says, using my childhood nickname, the name that makes me feel both close and ashamed. “Come inside. Come with me.”

I ask for a drag on her cigarette and she gives me one of my own. Another concession while I stall. She urges me inside again. But I can’t imagine accepting her gentle hand. I don’t deserve the kindness. I cannot stop drinking. I’ve tried and failed. I give up. And so should she. I lay down in the street, next to the curb. Tiny rocks on the asphalt mean nothing to my numb, bloated body.

“Just let me go,” I say out loud. Then silently: forget about me. Let me slip into the dark.