Bad people. They told him they’d clear his debt if he could supply them with certain medications. High-grade beta-blockers and blood pressure meds are used to cut other street drugs. He begged me. He said they were going to hurt him.” I felt the room spin.

“You risked my life to pay off our son’s drug debt?” “You were fine on the lower dose!” Gene pleaded, reaching across the table. I recoiled from his touch. “I thought you wouldn’t notice. I was going to stop it next month, I swear. I just needed to buy him some time.” He had been rationing my life-saving medication.

The man who promised to protect me had looked me in the eye every morning, handed me a glass of water, and watched me swallow a pill he knew wasn’t enough to keep my heart beating properly. He had watched me struggle to catch my breath on the stairs and said nothing.

“Tomorrow at nine,” I said, my voice turning to ice. “The two of us are driving to Linden Street. We are going to stand on Denny’s porch. And when he opens that door, you are going to tell him that his supply is cut off, and that I am calling the police.” “Maggie, you can’t do that.

They’ll arrest him. Or worse, the people he owes will come after him.” “I don’t care,” I said, standing up from the table. “You chose his mistakes over my life.” The next morning, the drive to Linden Street was entirely silent. The sky was heavy with gray clouds, threatening rain.

Every block we passed felt like a mile. When Gene finally pulled the car up to the curb of number 442, a dilapidated, peeling duplex with overgrown weeds, my heart pounded painfully in my chest—a grim reminder of exactly what I was missing. We walked up the concrete steps.

Gene looked terrified, completely broken. I raised my fist and pounded on the front door. We waited. I could hear movement inside. Heavy footsteps approaching. The deadbolt slid back with a loud clack. When that door opened, the person standing there wasn’t the terrified, indebted man Gene had described.

Denny stood in the doorway holding a brand new smartphone, wearing an expensive watch, looking healthier and more comfortable than he had in years. Behind him, stacked on the entryway table, were several familiar white pharmacy boxes. Unopened. Ready to be sold for pure profit.

He didn’t owe anyone. He was just taking advantage of a father’s blind love, and a mother’s fragile heart. I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I simply looked at my son, then turned to look at my husband, who was staring at the boxes in absolute devastation as the reality of his ultimate betrayal washed over him.

“I’ll be packing my things this afternoon,” I told Gene, never breaking eye contact.