I quit drinking five and a half years ago.

My husband didn’t.

“I’m done,” I said on January 19, 2020, barely surviving what would become my very last hangover. The shame hadn’t fully landed yet; the memory of nursing my baby in a blackout was still a blur, but it hovered like a storm cloud. Heavy. Inevitable. It pressed down on me, whispering: This is the last time.

I didn’t make a pros-and-cons list. I didn’t Google “am I an alcoholic?” I didn’t even weigh the possibility of moderation. I just knew. The knowing that splits your life into a Before and an After. I was done, even if I didn’t yet know what being “done” would require of me.

I can’t tell you exactly how my husband responded. I think he nodded. A small shrug, maybe. A half-smile. Pacifying. Not dismissive, but not grasping t

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