I’d never heard so many people complain in all my life.
And that was saying something, because I’d spent the pasttwo yearslistening to Max bitch about my life choices, and before that, I’d had a husband who spent more time whining about the world being against him than actually doing something about it.
But this? This wasunreal.
The meeting room was filled with the kind offorced sadnessthat made my skin itch. Folding chairs arranged in a circle, a percolator of burnt coffee in the corner, and a whiteboard that hadn’t been updated since January.
I leaned back in my chair with my arms crossed, half-listening to some guy namedRaytalk about how his drinking had cost him hisfifthmarriage.Fifth.At some point, you had to wonder if alcohol was really the problem.
I stared blankly at a spot on the wall, letting their voices blur together.
This was my last meeting.
Thelastsignature I needed.
The finalbox to checkbefore Max handed me the next step, the next hoop to jump through before he wassatisfiedenough tolet me have my money. Maybe he’d even think about setting up a marriage for me.
I wassoclose.
I shifted, feeling thesignedattendance slips crinkle in my pocket.Perfectly forged proof of my dedication to sobriety.
Gregory or Greg or whatever his name was—the leader, the moral compass, the guardian of personal redemption and some other bullshit—clapped his hands together, offering a serene smile.The kind of smile that made me want to set something on fire.
“And now,” he said, “we’d like to hear from Valentina.”
My stomachdropped. I blinked. “What?”
He nodded encouragingly, as if this were somepivotal momentin my redemption arc. “Would you like to share?”
Was he really going to do this to me again?
God, no. I’d rather sit here and listen to Cheryl’s sob story about how she hid vodka bottles in her kid’s diaper bag, or hear Mike drone on about finding enlightenment in a gas station bathroom. At least then I wouldn’t have to pretend to say something profound about my own mess. At least then my ugly truths would stay mine.
Everyone here spilled their guts so easily, as if publicly flaying yourself alive in a church basement was some badge of honor. And for what? To get a round of sympathetic nods from strangers who probably left here judging you anyway?
No, thank you.
Besides, if I opened my mouth, what the hell would even come out? “Hi, I’m Valentina, and I’m here because sobriety feels like a life sentence?” Or, “Hi, my name’s Valentina, and I’d rather claw my eyes out than admit I actually need this?”
Sober thoughts bred internal misery.
At least when you were drunk, you could drown the truth in cheap liquor and denial. Sobriety forced you to sit in silencewith every mistake you’d ever made. It made you stare directly into the eyes of all the things you’d been running from and say, “Yeah, I fucked that up.”
Admitting things sober was terrible—like peeling off your skin one confession at a time. And if I was going to peel off layers, it certainly wasn’t going to be in front of an audience who clapped politely as you exposed your wounds.
“I’m good,” I said finally. “I think I’d rather listen today.”
He looked disappointed, like I’d personally robbed him of his golden sponsor moment. One woman muttered something aboutprogressunder her breath.
“If you’re not ready to share,” he said carefully, “that’s fine. But participation is key, Valentina. It’s how we hold ourselves accountable.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes.
Here we go again.
Participation, accountability—two words theylovedto throw around here. As if my ability to stand up and bleed my personal trauma in front of strangers would somehow prove I was healing. As if the measure of my sobriety hinged on how convincingly I could narrate my disaster to a room full of sympathetic faces.
The whole thing felt like some twisted therapy session I hadn’t signed up for, run by people who probably got high off hearing everyone else’s dirt so they could feel better about their own boring lives.
