There she was, sitting on the twin-sized bed in the bare room that resembled a sad college dormitory. Her slender silhouette was more noticeable than I ever remembered, accentuated by clothing that drooped as if hung on a fragile hanger.
I trailed behind my father as he led the way into the stark and depressing room. Wearing his signature style — a tie-dyed t-shirt and his waist-long brown hair tied into a low ponytail, my dad had been my younger brother’s and my guiding light for the past few weeks while Mom was in rehab again.