If I could stop her, I would.
I’ve seen the way her hands shake, fumbling with the cupboard door. It always takes longer than it should to find the right bottle, and she never gets the lid open on the first try. She’ll twist it this way and that, whack it against the sink, let every swear word she knows tumble past her lips before tipping out
sometimes four little white circles into her palm. She’ll look at me, dead-on, as she swallows each one back.
If I could stop her, I would— but I can only watch.
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