I Thought My Teenage Son Was Staying at His Best Friend’s House Every Weekend Until His Mom Called Me With the Same Story

I took him home.

Greg’s Bronco was in the driveway. Crooked. Half on the lawn. The driver’s door was open. The engine was still running.

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He was in the kitchen. Passed out on the floor. In that olive green jacket.

There was a bottle of pills on the counter. And a bottle of Jim Beam. Both almost empty.

Nathan stood in the doorway and looked at his father on the floor.

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“Is Daddy dead?” he asked.

Greg wasn’t dead.

I called 911. They took him to the hospital. They pumped his stomach. He lived.

I packed his things that night. In black garbage bags. Everything. His clothes. His tools. His records. That olive green jacket.

I set the bags on the front porch. I called a locksmith. At midnight. I paid him two hundred dollars to change every lock in the house.

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I filed for divorce the next morning. And a protective order.