“Is everyone comfortable with that?” said the woman in charge.
The teens exchanged glances. Finally, a girl with purple hair shrugged. “Whatever. It’s fine.”
“You are one of us,” said the kid with the headphones in a Darth Vader voice. There were nods of agreement. Cord felt happier than he’d felt in a while. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m Cord. I’m an alcoholic. And my dad was an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Cord,” the group responded in unison.
The facilitator took her place in the circle. “For those who are new today, my name is Hannah. My father was an alcoholic for most of my childhood. He finally got sober when I was seventeen, but by then I’d developed a lot of habits to protect myself—hypervigilance, people-pleasing, taking responsibility for everyone’s feelings.” She paused. “I’ve been attending Al-Anon for twelve years now, and I’ve learned that I didn’t cause my father’s drinking, I couldn’t control it, and I couldn’t cure it. But I could heal myself.”
She glanced around the circle. “Today, we’ll each have three minutes to share whatever’s on our minds. No one will interrupt or respond directly to what you say. This is a safe space to express yourself without judgment.” Hannah placed a small timer on her chair arm. “Who would like to begin?”
The room was quiet for a moment. Then the purple-haired girl raised her hand.
“I’m Dani,” she said. “My dad’s been sober for almost ayear…this time.” She stared at her hands. “He missed my band concert again last week. Not because he was drinking, but because he was at a meeting. I know I’m supposed to be supportive of his recovery, but sometimes it feels like nothing’s really changed. He’s still not around.” She fell silent, and for over a full minute, no one spoke. The timer went off softly, and Dani nodded once, indicating she was finished.
A boy with glasses raised his hand.
“I’m Alex. My mom promises things are different now. She’s got six months sober. But I still find myself checking the recycling bin for bottles. I still get nervous when she laughs too loud. I don’t know how to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Alex looked around, then down at his lap. “That’s all.”
One by one, the teens shared their stories. No one responded, no one offered advice. Just three minutes of raw truth, followed by silence, then another voice. Cord sat quietly, absorbing their words, seeing himself in their hypervigilance, their premature responsibility, their exhaustion.
When it was the lanky boy’s turn, he spoke so softly Cord had to lean forward.
“I’m Miguel. My dad went to rehab four months ago. Now he’s home, and everyone acts like our problems are over. But he goes into the garage every night for hours. My mom makes excuses for him. And I’m the only one who helps my little sister with her homework.”
Cord bit the inside of his lip. How many times had he checked Regan’s math problems while their father was “working” and their mother was “resting”?
“The worst part is that it’s like Iknoweverything’s going to fall apart again. I just want to be a normal kid.”
The timer went off. Miguel nodded and leaned back in his chair. Hannah turned to Cord. “Would you like to share?”
Cord hadn’t planned on saying anything, but he found himself nodding. “I’m Cord. I’m an alcoholic.” He looked around the circle, at these kids whose experiences mirrored his own. “When I was your age, I was like many of you. I mean, my sisters and I took care of ourselves…we took care of each other. We stayed out of my father’s way when he was in a mood, but I was always scanning for danger.”
The timer ticked quietly.
“That need to take care of everyone, to control every situation—it followed me into adulthood. I built a career around fixing problems, controlling outcomes. I became very successful, but I never learned how to just…be.”
Cord sighed, allowing himself to speak his truth. “And then I started drinking too. Even though I swore I never would. I used alcohol the same way my dad did—to just…shut it off, to stop feeling responsible for everyone else’s happiness.”
The kids were watching him intently now, without the skepticism they’d shown earlier.
“I’m uh, I’ve been sober for a day. Not even a day—like ten hours. Again. I’ve been here before. I’m still learning that I can’t fix everything—can’t fix my partner, can’t fix my sister, can’t fix myself through sheer force of will.” He met Miguel’s eyes briefly. “The patterns can be broken. They’re hard as hell to break, but it’s possible. I believe that. I do.”
The timer sounded. Cord nodded, suddenly aware of how exposed he felt.
Hannah thanked everyone for sharing and concluded the meeting with the Serenity Prayer. They all stood in a circle, held hands, and said, “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
The teens began to disperse. Cord hung back, not sure whetherto wait for the AA meeting or just go back to Charlotte’s. As he was gathering his things, the boy named Miguel approached him hesitantly. “Hey,” Miguel said, his hands jammed in his pockets.
“Hey,” Cord replied.
“I was wondering…” Miguel paused, clearly uncomfortable. “Um, I’m supposed to get a sponsor.”
Cord blinked in surprise. “Oh, I can’t be a sponsor, Miguel. I’m, like, at Step One.”
Miguel shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah, got it. Sorry. I just…man, it’s tough being a gay kid in this town. You wouldn’t know.” The kid seemed simultaneously defiant and terrified, as if expecting rejection but daring Cord to say something about his sexuality.
“Oh, Miguel, Idoknow,” said Cord. They stood in silence for a moment. “Want to grab a coffee?” said Cord.
