I was 13 years old when I first realized that my mother did not want to live. One night during spring break of eighth grade, I woke to the dog barking and red and yellow lights splashing across the walls. When I peered out my window into the darkness, I saw my father standing beside an ambulance in our driveway and EMTs loading my mother—screaming and thrashing, strapped to a gurney—into it.
The next day, my father drove me to a friend's house. The sunroof was open and the blue sky rolled along above us.
Your mother is sick, he said, trying to soften the impact.
She overdosed on her medication and drank a couple of bottles of wine. She had to get her stomach pumped. I asked,
Did she swallow the whole bottle or just a few pills? The bottle, he said,
the whole bottle.
He began to cry, which I'd never seen him do.
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