My dad got worse after my mom died. And not only that, he dragged me down with him. No, I shouldn't blame him. I mean, he may have pressured me, may have made fun of me until I tried it, but I still could have said no. I still could have walked out and never returned. But part of me, some stupid part of me, wanted my father to like to me and I thought he would if I sat down and took the joint from him. And so I did. Knowing what it had done to my parents, knowing what it would do to me. And I didn't care. Or I did, but not enough. Not nearly enough.