“I’m eating, Mom. Three regular meals a day. I promise,” I said tiredly, feeling the telltale signs of a migraine in the center of my forehead.

A migraine that was spelled M-O-M.

My mother smoothed her hair, the same shade of blonde as my own, and repositioned her silk blouse. She was a relentless primper, particularly when she was feeling annoyed, or being annoying, it really didn’t matter.

“Sit up straight, you slouch too much. You’ll become a hunchback,” she instructed, smacking the back of my hand. I didn’t flinch at the sudden sting. I was used to her casual abuse. It was as normal as apple pie.

I wanted to roll my eyes, but I knew better. So I bit my tongue and put my shoulders back, making my spine as straight as a steel rod. She’d get nothing from me. No reason to pick and pull apart. I was stronger than that and I’d never give her an inch.

Though the truth was I was a twenty-four-year-old woman who was more than a little scared of her mother.

My mom narrowed her eyes, taking in my neat and tidy appearance. I had dressed conservatively in khakis and a button down shirt. My long, blonde hair was held back in a clip and I wore minimal makeup. It was a far cry from the dolled up college girl I used to be. But I was a far cry from the dolled up college girl I used to be. And I was thankful for that. Because Gracie Cook of four years ago was rather annoying.

And for me, it was important to not look like a recovering alcoholic and anorexic, for whatever that was worth. I wanted to appear competent and capable. It made it easier to believe that I actually was.

“You’re not drinking again, are you? Do I need to have you take a breathalyzer every time you enter my house?” she demanded, her eyes hard, her mouth pinched into an expression I was used to.

Disapproval.

Of course Sarah Cook would look at pressed trousers and brown loafers and see “drunk.” Her perception was beyond skewed.

Be cool, Gracie. Don’t throw the sandwich in her face. She means well. Well, maybe not, but it’s not worth getting pissed. Remember all those great techniques you learned in therapy.

My mental pep talk worked and I was able to give Mom a dazzling smile full of white teeth and full lips. A smile that meant business. “I’m sober as a priest, Mom. I promise.”

She frowned, clearly not appreciating my euphemism. She reached across the kitchen table and carefully cut my sandwich into quarters as she had done since I was five. She arranged the pieces on my plate and pointed at it. “Eat,” she commanded.

I wasn’t hungry. Something about my mother made me instantly lose my appetite.

But dutifully, I picked up my sandwich and took a bite. It tasted perfect. Of course it did. My mother would never settle for anything less. Crisp lettuce and tasty ham on thick white bread with the crusts cut off. It could have been on a goddamned magazine cover.

I spent the next fifteen minutes swallowing my pride along with my food as my mother fussed over me like I was still a child. Our relationship had seriously regressed in the last couple of years to the point that I was no longer viewed as an adult who had graduated from college and had been living on her own for years. And no matter how many strides I made in the right direction it didn’t matter. Because I had messed up. I had embarrassed them. I had proven that I wasn’t deserving of any sort of trust they could have had in me.

I knew they had only been waiting for me to screw up. So when the moment came, they pounced. They swooped in, taking me home, tucking me into my childhood bed, cooking me my childhood meals, and treating me like I was incapable of doing anything for myself.

I had been one giant mess and they loved making all of my decisions for me.

After all, I was an alcoholic who, in my parents’ eyes, was always in danger of falling off the wagon. And some days I agreed with them.

Even though I had worked hard to get myself together, it wasn’t quite enough. I was working part time at Southern Garden Magazine freelancing for their weekly feature section. It wasn’t my dream of working at a big time magazine like Time or People, but I’d take it. I also started working a few shifts a week at the local library to round out the rest of my income. Sure, it wasn’t the best arrangement, but it was better than slinging coffee and feeling sorry for myself, as I had been doing before that. They may only be a couple of part time gigs, but they were totally respectable jobs where I got to dress like a grown up, pack my lunches, and carry coffee in a silver thermos.

I was still the girl who had almost drunk herself into an early grave.

But I had grown tired of the label. And I was gearing up to put my foot down, and god help us all when I finally did.

I hated to think about who I used to be before . Gracie Cook—sorority girl, life of the party.

Back when the most important things in my life had been what color lip-gloss I should wear with my cute, pink skirt. I had been shallow and a bit on the vapid side. I thought I was happy, but I had been living a great, big lie.

The truth was that inside I was wallowing in misery.

But now…well now, I was figuring shit out. I was sorting out my head.

And my heart.

I was trying to get my life where I wanted it to be.

After all, my friends were all in good places in their lives. I was tired of trailing behind.

But working at Southern Gardens was a great start, in my opinion . It was one of the few passions I still held on to.

I had worried that the whole working at a newspaper thing would take a nosedive after I had almost died from alcohol poisoning. Because it was funny how a near death experience could really mess with getting a reference from your former employer. And for a while it didn’t look like I had a chance in hell of ever continuing the career I had planned for myself.