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February 28th. On the thirty-third anniversary of my birth, I awake feeling like death. The realization that I’m twenty-five days sober floods me with simultaneous regret at having screwed up and gratitude that I’m not drunk.
Seconds after my eyelids open, before I’ve even gotten out of bed, my phone rings. A number I recognize, but still haven’t programmed into my phone—just in case.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Jessica. I won’t keep you long. Just calling to wish you a happy birthday and to tell you your gift should be arriving later.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, that’s it, sweetheart. Like I said, I don’t want to keep you.”
Keep me? It’s been all of fourteen seconds.
“Mom?”
“I hope I didn’t wake you. I know it’s early, and you probably sleep in, but I wanted to catch you while you were alert and let yo
