When the doctor held me in the air, my mom named me “Kevin.”

When my veins thirsted for the next bag of heroin, my mom knelt in church pews praying. When I was running around the street, my mom stared out the window of her house hoping I’d show up.

When I was homeless in train stations, my mom stayed up at night sleepless. When I searched for the best bundle of dope, my mom searched for the best rehab. When I tried to manipulate her, my mom held her ground and didn’t give in.

When the telephone rang, my mom feared it was news of my death. When I detoxed from heroin, my mom sat at home with tears streaming down her face. When I manipulated therapists, my mom waited for the call that I had left treatment again.

When people said I would never get clean, my mom never gave up hope. When I was a Junkie, my mom was my mother.

When I was a dope fiend, she was my mom. When I was a coke head, she was my mom. When I became an addict, I was still her son.

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