realize with a shock that we have entirely different responses to the death of the man we both call Dad. “I am so wrecked about this,” she cries. I hug her tightly, rubbing her back. “I know. I’m so sorry.” It makes me feel like a monster because I’m still not feeling that much. Funny that the biological child is so chill and the adopted one is falling apart. It’s a mean thought, but I’ve discovered over these months in rehab that I have a pretty wide mean streak, one of the millions of things I drank to cover up.