And then, the insanity of my own reaction. At first I didn’t even understand; the words didn’t make sense. You’ve been getting fucked up? What do you mean, you’ve been getting fucked up all day and all night? How is that even possible? You’ve been at work all night. You weren’t working fucked up. The disbelief washing over me. No. No. That’s impossible. Not you. Not now. No way, no how. Then, as the words gradually sank in and took hold, as comprehension slowly filtered its way through the fuzzy lens of wishful thinking and gentle naivete, the anger set in. How could you. How could you? After this long? After everything it’s cost you? How could you so much as think about it, much less do it? The anger, accompanied by the screaming, the ranting, the raving, the tearing out of hair, the wailing. Him sitting there, tears streaming down his face, so helpless. So big, and over thirty, but with the face of a wounded little boy. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. What have I done?” Yes. What?