For the first few weeks, Maren was a ghost in the room. She came early, left quickly, and kept her eyes on the floor. She listened to the stories - raw, unvarnished, full of jagged edges - and felt something inside her shift.
There was Lila, who had lost custody of her daughter and was fighting to earn back supervised visits. There was Talia, barely twenty-two, who joked too loudly but cried silently when she thought no one noticed. There was June, who had thirty years clean and still said, "I'm one bad day away from forgetting everything I've learned."
Maren learned the rhythm of the room: Truth. Breath. Laughter. Tears. Repeat.
One night, when the meeting was nearly over, her voice rose like a startled bird.
"I don't know who I am without using," she said. "I don't know how to stay."
The room went still - not with judgement, but with recognition.
Sonia reached over and squeezed her hand. "You don't have to know yet. Just don't leave."
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