“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter, taking in the state of the place before my eyes land on the heap of a woman who’s on the old carpet between the sofa and the coffee table, surrounded by bottles and needles. She has good times. Times when she might just be able to keep her promises about cleaning up and becoming a mother once more. But those times are always followed by this devastation. I get it, to a point. Loss is hard. Hell, I feel it every fucking day. I fight it every fucking day. And I didn’t even know one of them. It was hard to deal with as a kid surrounded by women and having my
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