I used to come home drunk late at night or early in the morning to find my wife at the top of the stairs berating me that I had a problem and needed to get help. My standard response was that she had the problem, not me.
After the usual debate over what my drinking was doing to my daughter, I’d stumble into the bedroom and climb into bed, only to have my head land on a hardcover book sitting on my pillow. One night I grabbed it and tossed it against the wall. During the night on my way to the bathroom, I stubbed my toe on the book, picked it up and took it with me, turned on the...
-- Tom J.
San José, California