“Mom?” Genevieve asked.
“Ready to cut the apron strings?” Natasha added.
Mom sniffed. “I’ll never cut the apron strings.”
“Are you ready totrimthe apron strings?” Natasha said coaxingly.
“It may be...” Mom finally replied grudgingly, “that I could benefit from letting go ... a little bit more than I have.”
Genevieve decided to chalk that response up as a win and broke into spontaneous applause.
“Felicitations!” Natasha crowed in true Jane Austen style, joining in the applause.
Genevieve pushed from her chair and motioned the rest of the family to their feet for a group hug.
“I love you,” Dad said once they formed a Woodward family huddle.
“I love you, too,” the rest of them echoed.
“We’ll help you in any way we can,” Mom told Genevieve.
“And I’ll help you,” Genevieve replied staunchly,to abstain from smothering me.
“This is a moment to treasure,” Mom cooed.
Before all was said and done, Natasha promised to knit Genevievea sweater. Dad mentioned a player on the Mercer football team who’d kicked his prescription drug habit. Mom suggested taking Genevieve to the hair salon next week.
If Natasha was motivated to knit and Dad was thinking about football and Mom was wanting to change her hair, then everything really was going to be okay.
That afternoon, Genevieve sat at her desk in the cottage watching light rain christen the undulating land of Sugar Maple Farm. It nicked the pond with hundreds of increasing circles and pattered against the leaves of the morning glory vine framing her window.
She hadn’t seen Sam’s truck return from work yet today.
Sam. The thought of him prodded a tender, painful corner of her heart. She loved him, but she couldn’t let herself think of him or how things had been left between them at this particular point in time. Thinking on those things had the power to liquefy her bravery. And in order to do what she had to do before she’d be able to look Sam in the face again, she needed to be brave.
She’d decided to give herself a few days to catch her breath and think before approaching him. Tomorrow, day ninety post-Oxy, she’d spend alone at Misty River’s spa, relaxing and reflecting. No doubt Sam also needed time to catch his breath and think. Also, to figure out whether or not she was worth the effort. The tender corner of her heart throbbed again—
She drew in several courage-building inhales. She’d survived admitting her addiction to her parents. She could survive this.
She shook out her hands, then rested her fingertips on her computer’s keyboard and composed an email to her agent. Sent it. Composed an email to her publisher. Sent it. Composed an email to the coordinators of the conferences she had on her calendar. Sent it.
In each case, she explained her issue candidly and informed them how she planned to alter her schedule. She told them she’d be letting her followers know immediately and finished by asking them for their forgiveness.
Sniffling as tears snaked over her lashes, she began to compose an open letter.
To those of you who’ve done my studies, heard me speak, supported me...
I hope you know how much I love you.
I love you dearly.
One of the most fervent desires of my heart has been to serve you. I’m incredibly honored to have been a part of the writing and speaking ministry the Lord entrusted to me for the past ten years. I’ve been very, very passionate about leading you forward as we chase hard after Christ.
Lately, though, I no longer feel capable of leadership.
I started taking an opioid painkiller more than a year ago. At first, I took it for a medical reason. But I continued taking it for mental and emotional reasons. My dependence on painkillers became so powerful that I needed them every day simply to get by. I made bad decisions that endangered myself and others. I lied repeatedly to cover up my secret. Twice, I tried to quit and failed.
A few months ago, I was finally able to stop taking the pills. Since then, I’ve been attempting to maintain my full workload. I’ve wholeheartedly wanted to continue speaking. I’ve wholeheartedly wanted my next study to release when I told you it would. I’ve wholeheartedly wanted to be healthy.
