Page 121 of A Love That Broke Us
During the silence, I glance around the room, taking in the people seated near us. They all seem… normal. Sure, a few look like they’ve had a rough past, like life’s beaten them up a bit, but most? They look like fathers, sisters, husbands, daughters, and friends.
They look like Jensen. Good people caught in a bad cycle. One bad choice. One accident. One surgery. One moment, and itswallowed them whole. Gave them a problem. A problem so many others can avoid, even with the same choices made.
Grant continues, “If you will all stand for the Serenity Prayer.”
Fortunately, and unfortunately, I know it by heart. I’ve said it hundreds of times with my dad, my mom, Michael.
My eyes flick to Jensen, unsure of what’s going through his mind. I don’t know if he even knows the Serenity Prayer.
Everyone rises, and the room fills with steady, unified voices:
“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.”
Jensen knew every word.
We sit, and Grant looks around. “Is there anyone new to recovery or returning?”
His eyes land on Jensen, holding for a second, but when Jensen doesn’t move, he shifts his attention to the rest of the room, scanning for raised hands.
A man behind us lifts his arm, and Grant offers a warm welcome.
Jensen stays quiet, his hand sweating in mine. I give it a squeeze.It’s okay if he’s not ready.He’s here. That’s the first step, isn’t it? Admitting you have a problem.
Grant continues, explaining the twelve steps before moving on to the sobriety chips. I listen quietly as people walk to the front of the room, celebrating their milestones—thirty days, sixty, ninety. Some get chips for staying sober just twenty-four hours. Each one earns quiet applause, and every hand that clutches a chip feels like a small miracle.
I drift into my thoughts when Grant invites people up to share.
I know addiction can happen to anyone. It isn’t picky. But Jensen? He doesn’t belong here. He’s too good. Too kind. Too fun. A year ago he was almost too good to be true. We were almost too perfect.
But I guess no one gets through life unscathed. Eventually, something gets you. I guess this was our turn.
It’s not fair. I did my time growing up with an alcoholic father, and losing my mom to cancer. I thought I finally caughta break.
I did all the right things. I went to college. I got good grades. Became a nurse. Built a career.
I didn’t sleep around, or get drunk on the weekends. I never touched drugs.I even fucking prayed.
I stopped praying when Jensen stopped trying. When I realized the same evil that wrecked my childhood had crept into my home, even after all the pleading, all my faith.
Turns out, God doesn’t care if you pray.
This whole thing has shaken my faith to the core. I’m not religious. I never really was. I went to church here and there with my mom growing up, but it never clicked for me. I had my own thing, though, my own relationship with God.
But now? It’s dwindling. Sometimes I envy Jensen for not giving a damn about what happens after we die. He doesn’t overthink it. He’s never prayed. He just lives.
He says he’s agnostic. He believes in something bigger than himself, but doesn’t feel the need to define it.
One by one, people take turns at the front. Stories of failure, of hope, of wins. Every story’s different, but they’re all the same at their core—people trying their damndest to get it right. To rewrite their story. Some have relapsed again and again. Some have been clean for years and still keep showing up. Because this? It’s a lifetime fight.
A woman around my age steps to the podium. She’s pretty, even wholesome-looking. And when she speaks, my heart splits in two.
She talks about losing custody of her children. About being homeless, and chasing the next needle, the next high, the next moment of unconsciousness. She lost everything: her husband, her kids, her family. Everything.
She starts crying as she shares that she’s been clean for one year today. Tomorrow, she gets to see her children for the first time in four years.
