When I was eight, my mother stood in front of 12 third grade girls, teaching us how to make “chicken ovens”: fold sheets of aluminum foil into pockets; fill them with raw chicken, veggies, and spices; seal them; and place them in the fire. The other mothers who came to chaperone our Girl Scout camp had already praised my mom for organizing a wholesome weekend in the rustic Florida wilderness, but with her simple but delicious meals, she became the most popular Girl Scout leader our troop ever had.

This was my mother at her best: playing board games, preparing vintage meals, and organizing elaborate birthday parties. “I want us to be best friends,” she often said, with a tenderness that made me believe I could forgive her for anything.

But my mother had also struggled with substance abuse

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