I saw his body through the window the minute I entered the house. Draped over the back deck half on, half off, face down in his own vomit. 

 It was a Thursday. I remember, because I swim on Thursdays.

 I’d been up fifteen minutes when they’d waltzed in, too cheery for 5 am.

“Hi Mom, this is Zach.” said Noah, my intoxicated son. “He gave me a ride home. Can he stay?”

 I was a jury of one.

 “Sure.” My mouth said, my brain scurrying to catch up.  

 The least I could do was give him a bed.

 “I have to go to swim.” I said.” I’ll be gone one hour,” knowing full well I’d be gone an hour thirty if I dodged all the cops and drove eighty. “You’re going straight to bed, right?”

 You can’t reason with a drunk, a teenager, an addict or a liar. My son was all of these at 17, yet I refused to believe it.

 “Definitely” he said.

 Ingenious and alluring, leaving girls in his wake, he’d made his way through the public and private school system, employers, church workers and parents. Aware of his charms, I wasn’t immune.

 Ninety minutes later I walked in the front door.