I had grown used to my son coming in late. This had become as much of his normal routine now, as his lies had become flat and an insult to my sensibilities. I had stopped asking him, how he was doing, too. Brian would only become more defensive with me, believing I was trying to pry into his secretive life.

I had long since stopped trying to interrogate him. I did not like playing that role. I wasn't a cop, I was a concerned father, who was desperate to help my son break out of this habit, that was playing hell with his life.

My son, Brian had moved back into the house, from his apartment when he was evicted for not paying his rent. I even gave him the money to catch up, so he wouldn't get thrown out, but the cash disappeared. It's some kind of magic trick, a lot of addicts have; making money, simply vanish into nothingness.

I thought I was helping him. I was trying to help him, that's a truth, but all my efforts seemed to fall short of their intentions. My son, who I raised to be a lot more than a drunk, did the unthinkable; he had become a alcoholic.

I moved him back into my house, because I loved my son. I did not want to be laying in bed, awake at nights, wondering if he was sleeping in some car, or passed out, even dead, lying in some back alley.

There was a part of me that felt selfish, wanting him under my roof, so I wouldn't have to worry. I worried anyway. In fact, I reached a point, I did not want to know anymore, if Brian was Ok, or not.

I won't talk about the war stories we had going between us, or how he couldn't stay sober, to even hold a job. Things were very out of control. My son and I were both lost in some nightmare, I could never have imagined.

One day, I got a phone call from someone who seemed to know a lot more about my son, than I was comfortable with. The caller was a woman who worked at an outreach center in town. She knew my son, through a call he made one night, when he was bottomed out. We talked for over an hour. I actually began to feel, there might be some light at the end of this tunnel.

The next evening, I met Fran; the woman I had spoken with the night before. We attended an Al-Anon meeting together, held in a church basement. At the end of the meeting, I felt as if, the light at the end of that tunnel, might not be my imagination, or wishful thinking. I had the phone numbers of other parents, who had been under the same gun, I was under.

I didn't feel so alone with this secret anymore. I began

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