Husband and I journeyed home, from rehab, from seeing our daughter in such a place. We travelled home in silence.

I put a meat and potato pie in the oven. Went and sat on the floor next to my husband’s chair, and cried, and cried some more. He hitched up in his seat, held his arm out to comfort me, I nestled there beside him, bereft.

I was convinced. My daughter would be damaged further, by this rehab experience. I worried she was not safe. But what could I do? I played movies in my head, of her drunk and desperate times. I knew she needed to stay, take what came her way.

My mind was choked with thoughts of her, stacked up in rows, when one scenario collapsed, another took its place.

I made friends with soduko, worked on numbers, not words, to try to clear my head.

For three months I went to visit Bella every Saturday, husband could not come – was busy with work. Every visit I took goodies, to cheer her, to cheer me. She was given a better room, a big one on her own. I was pleased for her. How far we had come, that I would be pleased with a room for my daughter, in a place such as this. She showed me her cupboard in the kitchen, her name stuck on the inside – made me think of student accommodation, lifted my heart a little.

It was exhausting, travelling to and fro.

One Saturday, I arrived, Bella and I had a massive argument, I walked out, came home.

Because…

sudoku

istockphoto

I am the mother of two adult daughters, both much loved and cared for. The eldest thought she could handle social drinking and party drugs, she could not. There is a journey addicts relate to - their journey. As a mother I have healed through the written word. This is my journey.

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