When the words, “Nice legs,” filled my ears, I froze in my bedroom doorway. Froze and peed myself. My breath hitched in my throat when I saw him. There he was. Covered in scars and drowning in secrets. The self-inflicted ones, the bruising on his veins, the indents on his flesh from where he’d shot up, were harder to stomach than the ones he’d endured at the hands of his father. But he was here. He was back. He was home. He was clean.
