We sat in a room with twenty or so strangers, all huddled in our family-group clusters under bad fluorescent lighting that glared off freshly waxed checkered floor tiles. The wax on the floor tiles could be described as lipstick on a pig. Our chairs were the foldout metal ones – dark brown, chipped paint, and uncomfortable. There was a plastic table at the side of the room with paper cups and a big pot of coffee, another of water, and a few cookies that were neither homemade nor delicious; the refreshments were institutional, cheap to make in bulk and offered here out of some social obligation for the cause. This was family night at the hospital where my father was checked in for alcohol rehab, the night that, before you could get your hour of visitation, your visitors had to sit through an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting with you and come to understand the burden you carried. This was not the first time I had attended such in my twelve years of life. It was not the first time that year. Later, on the way home, I would ask my mother why they called it a disease in one breath and in the next said it was up to each alcoholic to want to stop. It’s not a disease if willpower is the cure.