ImageCredit...Brian Rea Haunting in Our Family History “You are a ghost,” he slurred, whiskey glass trembling in his hand. My son’s words stung, but I saw the pain and depression behind them.
I had been away caring for his mother before she passed. Generations of addiction haunted us both. He wrestled with demons etched in our family’s history, helping others while losing his own battle.
I watched, heart heavy, as anger clouded his sensitive, autistic mind. “All that matters is that I love you, and I’m here,” I said gently.
His eyes softened, and the next sip was smaller but not small enough to save him.— V. Ramana Dhara Running into the Fray “How would you survive a zombie apocalypse?” My answer is reflexive. “I wouldn’t.