March 2005
Two Voices: One Story the Son
When shared genes lead to shared recovery
One night between Christmas and New Year's, 1978, when I was fifteen, my dad and I did our best to down a whole case of champagne. I accepted defeat around two in the morning, while Dad tried to polish the case off alone. The following morning, I woke up to find the entire apartment covered in blood, with still more pouring off his face. He had stumbled into the sharp corner of a table.
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