90 days

90 days.

That’s how long Mama spent at Gray’s Landing, “a drug and alcohol rehabilitation center”, when I was in 7th grade.

Ninety days.

That is also the amount of time she spent in jail, immediately following her stint in rehab, as the result of her third arrest for DUI. To this day I’m not sure how it went down…I wasn’t in the car…THANK GOD.  Although, I seem to remember overhearing something about her putting the car in reverse while on I-65 or maybe Highway 72, and backing under an 18-wheeler. Sounds both impossible, yet probable, considering she was most assuredly drunker than Cooter Brown at the time. Suffice to say, it is a miracle she lived through it. She did, in fact, walk away without scratch on her. The majority of the damage was to the car, unless you count emotional carnage. Along with these sketchy details, comes a recollection of them being mentioned in hushed tones, which is probably the reason I can’t fill in the gaps. Everyone tried their best to shelter me.

So, what are we at now? 180 days. 6 months. HALF A YEAR.

It’s all the same.

If you think about it, it’s also a helluva long time for a 13 year-old girl to be without her mama. Then consider the fact we lived in a small Southern town in Alabama, and you realize it’s an excruciatingly long time. Let’s face it, teenage life is hard enough when you don’t live in a place where everybody knows your name, as well as the names of all your ancestors and all your business. Adding insult to injury, my sister, Bug, was the dispatcher/jailer at the county jail where Mama had to serve her time. To say this was traumatic, is an understatement of magnanimous proportions. It’s worse than traumatic. It’s horrifying in the most epic of ways. Then again, alcoholism often, if not always, plays out in that manner at one point or another. Rock bottom, I believe it’s called?

Imagine having to lock up your own mother, day after day, for 90 consecutive days.

Let that sink in for a minute or two. Could you do it? Only the bravest could, and Bug ranks on up there in my book of guardian angels. More on her later, though.

3 times 30=90.

3 arrests for DUI.

3 years without a drivers license. (Oh. Did I forget to mention that? Sorry.)

Are you humming that Sesame Street song “Three is a magic number” yet? Thought so.

Only it wasn’t magic.

It was hell. And she never stopped drinking.

Not after spending time in the hospital going through the DT’s when I was 6 years old. Not after attending numerous Alcoholics’ Anonymous meetings throughout my early adolescence. Not after going to rehab or even after a stint in jail when I was in 7th grade.


One thing I can say with certainty is she did not drive a car for three whole years. For some reason, she took that part of her punishment seriously. She still drank, she just didn’t drive. Funny thing…I got my license for the first time before she got hers back. Rest assured, the irony of this is not lost on me, mostly because it meant I never had to ride with her behind the wheel of a car again. Finally, I could be my own way home, as well as my way out. Which was truly a blessing.

Allow me to elaborate.

I possess few memories of childhood prior to the age of eight or nine. None of them are precious. Possibly because the human psyche is phenomenal, and often completely blocks events too traumatic for the conscious mind to process. This is my only explanation, because I was intelligent beyond reason, with an otherwise eidetic memory. There are witnesses to support this fact. So, it would be correct to assume, under normal circumstances, I would remember everything. But my childhood was anything but normal. I do have some glimpses, or flashbacks, and I’m ready to share them. Be warned though. They epitomize the term gut-wrenching, and veer so far from heart-warming they cross all the lanes and crash into the center divider. So, if you are sensitive, well…grab some Kleenex for my  journey down Memory Lane.

As far as I can remember, my mother’s problem with alcohol dates back to my elementary school years. Kindergarten to be exact. It started before I was born though. When or what triggered it, who knows? The majority of my siblings swear their childhoods were idyllic. Full of joyous events, family outings, church socials and playful antics. Something Norman Rockwell might use as inspiration. Mama and Daddy might as well have been named June and Ward according to the “First Five”. There are 7 of us in all, and Bug is next to me in line. Her child-hell, began right around the time I was born, when she was 12. If you think about it, that really emphasizes why I always thought Mama’s drinking was my fault. She started when I was born. Anyway, I’d swear upon a stack of Bibles that the First Five were all party in a giant conspiracy theory about their upbringing if it weren’t for the Super 8 movies still in existence, as evidence. Numbers six and seven didn’t get so lucky, but we stuck together. There really was no other choice for survival. Even after she fled at 18, got married and had a baby of her own, Bug wasn’t gone for long. She returned for me, so to speak, and hasn’t ever stopped having my back since. While I’m rolling here, let me also admit to being jealous of my siblings, who knew a Mama I never did in childhood. Going one step further, I even blamed them for a bit for not being more persistent when petitioning the court for custody of me. Yes, it is my understanding they tried to get me the hell out of there so I could live some semblance of a stable, happy life, but to no avail. Daddy was warned of the plan, and the jig was up. He assured them it would ”be the death of Mama” if they took me away, and they retreated. The Enabler had spoken. Um, hello? What about the death of me?!! Obviously I couldn’t speak up for myself. What did I know? To me, it was perfectly normal. After all, I was only five, and that was my life as I’d always known it. Of course, I’m fully aware it wasn’t their fault, just as her drinking wasn’t my fault. So my fingers aren’t pointing at anyone, unless it’s to get their attention and profess my unconditional love for them. They know that. But I’m not sure they ever knew about my resentment to begin with, or the period of time when there was a whole lotta anger goin’ on because of it.  Until now.

But I digress.

I can’t recall what grade I was in, but I know Mama would often pick me up from school and head to the County Line to Mills Beverages (aka “the beer store”). You see, we lived in a dry county, situated right smack in the middle of the Bible Belt. So, unless you wanted to deal with the bootleggers (which she did on occasion, and it never ended well) you had to drive to the neighboring county to get your poison. Hers was Country Club beer back then, which I believe would be the equivalent of Colt45 today. However, as her disease progressed through my teens, she began to fancy cheap vodka, but in a pinch would guzzle whatever she could get her hands on, including cooking sherry and Listerine Original. Anyway, whenever she had me in tow while on an excursion to the County Line, she would bribe me with a Coke and a bag of Lay’s sour cream and onion potato chips so I wouldn’t rat her out to Daddy. Once back in the car, she’d reach in her purse and take out what appeared to be a plastic Coca-Cola label and wrap it around what I now know was a can of beer. This was to disguise it so she could drink it while driving home. Call it “DUI Incognito”. The manufacturers of that little plastic thingy should be sued for aiding and abetting child endangerment as far as I’m concerned. I have no idea how many beers she consumed while behind the wheel during the half-hour trip, but I do remember watching her drive with one eye open and the other shut, presumably to combat her beer goggled, double-vision. Clearly, Jesus took the wheel on many occasions and made sure I got home safely. There is simply no other explanation. Also, to this very day, just the smell of any brand of sour cream and onion potato chips make me gag. Couple it with a Coke, and I will vomit. Seriously.

Another such incident involved the police showing up at school to take me home from 4th grade. Apparently, my mother drove to pick me up, parked, got out of the car, staggered towards the school and passed out on the lawn of a house on her way to retrieve me from the classroom. The home belonged to someone whom, of course knew our family. No charges were filed, but of all the people whose homes were on that street, she landed in the District Attorney’s front yard! Living in a small town was both a blessing and a curse I suppose. Now that I am older, I can reflect on this one in a tragically hilarious way, and it makes me laugh. Then again, what else can I do? Perhaps if I ever write a script about my life, this will be the comedic relief scene.

Alright. Now for the nitty gritty.

Even though her drinking began before I was born, my most vivid recollection of it during my own childhood was in 1977. I was five years old. The current age of my Sweet Pea. One day, Mama kept me home from school for no particular reason. It might have been close to my birthday, because I remember the Presidential Inauguration of Jimmy Carter being on television, and that happens in January. My birthday month. Sometimes she kept me home, because she was lonely and wanted company. Apparently, even at five, I was a good conversationalist. Who knew? Maybe she just didn’t want to fool with getting me ready. Whatever. Regardless, it wasn’t my choice, because I LOVED SCHOOL. Still do, in fact, and wish like hell I could go back. During my whole life, Daddy worked in construction, and subsequently crafted many things in our home. One of them was the bed my parents slept on. It was king-sized, had a canopy and was built into the wall. Mama spent a good portion of my childhood in it, watching the television, which Daddy had ingeniously hung from the ceiling at the foot of the bed. Only one problem: there were no remote controls in 1977. In order to change the channel, you had to stand up at the foot of the bed and do it manually. Sounds simple enough, right? Sure. Unless you are heavily intoxicated, lose your balance, fall off the bed and smack your head on the brick wall next to it, which both knocks you out cold, and leaves a nasty, bleeding gash on your head. Now, imagine witnessing this as a 5 year-old, and then having to sit there, waiting on your mommy to wake up, believing she might not, for what seemed like an eternity…until your daddy got home.

Yes, that really happened. 

Feel free to pick your jaw up off the floor and read on. That’s the worst of it.

So far.

Now that I’m reflecting and writing, it’s rather amazing the kinds of details I actually remember about the isolated incidences. Children absorb a lot apparently, and if it’s particularly heinous, have the ability to repress the information for a really, long-ass time. After 35 years, I still remember the brand of beer she drank, what she looked like as she drove drunk, and what was on the television while I sat by her side, scared shitless she was dead, the day she kept me home from school. I also remember the smell…and it’s both nauseating and haunting. Oh, and the hoarse, slurred sound of her voice, as she screamed “HONEY!!!” at the top of her lungs, trying to get Daddy’s attention. This actually wakes me up at night, from the depths of my dreams, still. But if I had to pinpoint a time when Mama told me she loved me, or hugged me just because, I draw a complete blank.

wow. WoW.WOW. Perhaps hypnotherapy is in order?

Despite the genetic predisposition children of alcoholics have to become addicts themselves, I am happy to report I escaped. No addictive personality here, people. Well, not for substances anyway. Some would argue that I have an addiction to perfectionistic overachievement and helping others. Which could explain why I seem to attract these personalities as a white-hot flame would a suicidal moth. But, whatever. I just don’t give up. And I’ve put myself to the test over the years to prove it. In college, I tried all sorts of things, stopping short of stuff requiring a needle. Nothing stuck. No pun intended. To this day, I am able to have a glass of wine with dinner, a few beers while watching a football game, or even a shot of good ole’ Jack to soothe a scratchy throat….and walk away. Social drinking in moderation is fine by me, but I don’t crave booze to enhance my experience with friends. Nor do I need it to drown my problems. In other words, if we reverted back to the days of prohibition and lived Boardwalk Empire, I would be just fine.

I do worry about The Beans though. What if it just skipped MY generation? Certain behaviors they possess, even at their young ages, do send my radar spinning into over-drive on occasion. So I am keeping a close watch, just as any good mother would. Not surprisingly, my attention to detail is off the charts as well, and making special moments for them is at the top of my priority list. Because, I am living proof. They will remember the seemingly insignificant details, while only recalling the big picture in puzzle form. So I am determined to make sure they have all of the pieces.

While getting these thoughts “out there” is therapeutic for me, make no mistake, please. I mean no disrespect to my Mama.Or anyone in my family for that matter. My life story is what it is: imperfect, beyond my control, and completely mine. One of many things I accept, but cannot change while I say the Serenity Prayer, every single day. I’m writing about it now to set it free.

To set me free

I am positive she loved me, and would never have intentionally placed me in harm’s way. Alcoholism is a disease, and she had it in the terminal sense. Anyone who says otherwise, has never loved someone affected by it. Those who believe alcoholics choose to drink, neither understand the nature of the affliction, nor the fact there is no cure. Just like cancer. While normal people CAN choose to drink or not, alcoholics must choose to be sober. If they don’t, they will drink. That’s the truth. They make promises to stop as they draw their last breath, and they mean it. Honestly they do. Every. Single. Time. Yet, they are powerless against a selfish demon who reaches into their soul and takes hold like a vice grip, squeezing the life out of another promise and the hope of recovery once again. Until broken, it’s a vicious cycle that leaves smoldering wreckage worthy of a big budget, Hollywood movie about Armageddon in its wake.

Alcoholism affects everyone. Not just the drinker.

This I know

My mama drank to escape her reality. Which, from an outside observer’s point of view, wasn’t all that bad. She was a gifted artisan in all realms of sewing. She had 7 wonderful children who loved her dearly, and a husband who worshipped the ground she walked upon. He gave her everything she desired within his grasp, including the key to her undoing. Apparently, it wasn’t enough. But I wasn’t inside her head, and therefore can’t judge her actions nor hold them against her, especially not in death. Lung cancer, arterial disease, chronic alcoholism and a broken heart took her from this blessed Earth almost 17 years ago. I miss her every single day, and wish so much that she could meet my husband…talk to him…for so many reasons… and wrap her fragile arms around The Beans in an embrace only a grandmother could deliver. She would love loves them. I’m certain.

For many years after her death, I harbored residual resentment towards her for robbing me of my childhood. But no more. There is forgiveness in my heart, because now I know she was simply doing her job the best way she knew how, and above all…

preparing me for the road I would travel each day in adulthood. 

Thanks, Mama. Rest easy. You gave me a great map, and marked all the twists and turns in red Sharpie! 

I love you.



  1. Beautiful. You are a brilliant writer. Thank you for sharing this tragically brave survial story ending with the most positive perceptive. I have and will always admire,love and support you.

  2. Nancy the similarities of our childhoods are so similar! My daddy was an alcoholic and he left this world at the young age of 51. I had a very interesting childhood like you and also like you I remember very few things! I seem to remember mostly bad stuff which could be because that’s what it mostly consisted of! So strange how looking back to then I thought you were someone who had it all together, pretty, cheerleader and in the “IN” crowd, the perfect life! Yes, you were pretty and a cheerleader but little did I know your life was so similar to mine and we grew up down the road from each other too! Too bad we weren’t friends back then, we probably would have been good company for each other! LOL Thank you for being so open and honest about things that alot of people would rather keep in the closet! I know your momma would be proud of the woman you have become!!!!!

    • Amazing what you discover when you begin to uncover, huh? I had no idea about your life either, and I’m also sorry for that. Funny that you believed the hype of the life I created for others to witness in place of my real one. Perhaps it really did seem perfect. Of course, nothing ever is. Good to know my acting skills were sharp back then though! We could have swapped stories for certain. There were others I knew of, but never acknowledged at school, because we met in the back room of the AA house on Clinton Street, trying to cope with our own tragic lives in a supportive environment, while our parents were in the front room pretending to cope with theirs. And even Al-a-Teen must remain anonymous 🙂 But now, the world knows about my fractured and broken upbringing, and I have to say…I’m glad. If my story helps just one person feel less alone, it was worth the labor and panic. Feel free to share it with anyone you wish. My life as they say…is an open book now.

  3. Forgive the stupidity of the first sentence….that’s not what I meant to type, but you know what I was trying to say! LOL

  4. Yes, I have thoughts. I have always had thoughts. You just gave me the one glimpse into your life that I have always wished I had. My reasons have been a constant conflict all of my life, going back and forth between the “selfish” me who wants to know more about my grandmother, to the “curious” me who wants to know who you really are, and why. You spent your life like this. I spent my life watching my mother cry and yell on the phone when she thought I couldn’t hear or wasn’t paying attention….I spent my whole life listening to my parents bicker back and forth about the “little” time we did spend around a grandmother and grandfather I never knew.

    I can say this now….I cannot imagine how you felt as you wrote this today, or how many edits you went through before you hit post…not to make it perfect for readers, but to help heal your soul….to make it perfect for you. I cannot imagine how much you had to have cried while writing this. But, if you didn’t cry at all, I would understand that as well…..stuff like this hardens the soul.

    You are a good person, Nancy. You are best when you don’t try at all. And, I want to remind you, because I think you need to hear it NOW, that you were always loved more than you knew by your family who “grew up before you”. Life is not fair. It never will be. And I appreciate more than you know, you writing this tonight:)

    I love you so much.

    • Thank you, Ryan. I’ve never considered how it must have affected all of the grands, or that any of you might have known how hard it was, or even wondered. And I’ve spent all these years, scared to death to really talk about it. I guess because I was smothered by it, with no room to move, think or breathe. Y’all were all cheated out of a grandmother in the same ways I was cheated out of a mama. I’m so sorry for that, and for not being more forthcoming with information. When she was not “lost” she was magnificent. Truly. The fact of the matter is, it has taken me this long to piece it all together and simply begin to reconcile with it. Maybe that’s what 40 did to me. Damn.

      You nailed it with your words about the tears, the endless edits and the desire to just feel emptied of the information, while doing the story justice all at the same time, in some tragically perfect way. It took 2 emails to Shane this morning, a phone call with all of us sisters on the line this afternoon (complete with crying all around) and another phone call to Shane tonight before I could publish it. I almost password locked it, with the intention of sending out a link via email to only family members. Then it hit me. I was doing what I always had. Seeking approval, where none was necessary, because I yearned for it growing up. And that revelation helped me muster up the courage to publish it. I have no idea why. Only after it was done, did I cry. Not because my soul is hardened so much, but simply because I needed to muscle through the writing of it. Seriously, it ranks up there among the top 5 hardest things I’ve ever done, complete with the overwhelming urge to throw up immediately upon completion.

      I love you so very much too. And I promise to be better at making sure you know it 🙂

  5. Heather F says

    Wow. Brave. Thank you for your authenticity. Though we share different experiences, I carry a different suitcase filled with Stuff, I relate. Upholding the image, perfectionism, approval hound…yeah, I get it. Bless you.
    I turn 40 in 2 weeks. High five 🙂

  6. Erica Snipes says

    I’m kind of with Heather’s comments on this–you write with such authenticity and honest, it is really amazing. I don’t share your experiences…and yep, I’m glad I don’t, and that my mom isn’t an alcoholic. It would have sucked. But some of your experiences, emotions, and how it all affects you even now, can be applied to other experiences as well. I applaud you for your writing, I support you, and I wish all good things for you and your siblings as well. Are you a hugger? Well, I am, and I’m sending one to you, and a high five too! 🙂

    • Welcome to the crazy state of Calibama, Erica! Thanks for reading, following and commenting 🙂 You are correct about the emotional application of my experiences in other aspects of life. The survival of trauma comes in handy more than you could imagine. Life isn’t fair, and in fact, flat out sucks sometimes…but what can you do? I’m happy you find my writing authentic and honest. Sometimes I write and it reads back like senseless rambling to me. Then again, I am my toughest critic. Although I write for myself, and the healing it does to my soul, it’s comforting to know that it resonates with others!

  7. Deana Coats says

    Your story is heartbreaking. I can’t believe that spent 12 years of school and 4 years of cheering with you and never knew any of this! You truly are an amazing actress. I remember your Mama always being so sweet when she was measuring us for our cheerleading uniforms. I had no idea of the horrible disease she was battling! God bless you. I’m so glad you survived and thrived despite all of that!

    • Oh Deana, you were certainly not the only one in the dark about my real life! And Mama was the sweetest person on Earth, and would have given away anything she had to anyone who needed it. She tried so hard to fight the battle, and did her best to make up for her problem and its affect on me by making things like cheerleader uniforms whenever asked. Ultimately though, she was simply powerless. It’s the nature of the beast. Thanks so much for taking the time to read and comment here though. Really means the world 🙂

  8. Nancy, you are a brave and true hero in my books. You have lived through so much in your (YOUNG) forty years, and yet you are always smiling, always looking for life to bring you the best. You’re so brave opening up your experiences here and I have SO much respect for you doing so. Your love for your mama comes shining through, even as the pain, fear and disillusionment threatened to take your life down a whoolllee other path.
    You rock, Nancy!

    • Marilynn…your comment here, as well as what you wrote on your own blog about me, just got my tear ducts working again. Wow. Thank you from my whole heart. I think the very same things of you, my dear friend! I can’t wait to chat with you soon. There is so much to catch up on 🙂 xoxo

  9. Lee Ellen says

    Wow, Nancy. What a powerful read. I was such a naive, young Freshman girl when I knew you in Athens. I think that if you had told me that your mom was an alcoholic, I wouldn’t have understood the ramifications that were coupled with that. Having had a sweet friend that has battled this disease, I now know that what you so eloquently said about alcoholism being a disease just like cancer, is completely true.

    I know that your mom never won her fight, but she raised a fighter……

    Lee Ellen

    • Naive? You, Lee Ellen? No.. 🙂 I’m not even sure I understand the ramifications of it all at this very moment. But I’m trying, and writing this blog is really helping. And yes, alcoholism is a cancer. Maybe one of the deadliest, because it allows you to believe it’s gone and then when you least expect it, it takes over again. I do hope the friend you speak of is winning the battle. Please feel free to share this post if you think he/she could benefit in some way from it.

      And yes…go down swinging every day, humming “Eye of the Tiger”.


  10. Amanda Thress says

    I am in awe of your authenticity and bravery. Life can be so difficult. I didn’t grow up with an alcoholic parent; but I have a few people in my life who are alcoholics. Three of them are very close to my heart and soul: one was my first love, a relationship that did not work out after nine years of trying, his sister who is one of my dearest friends, and their father who passed away at the young age of 50. We all have our stories that affect our lives and hearts, don’t we? I grew up without a father, with a very hard working, tough mother. Each unhealthy situation shapes us, doesn’t it? All we can do each day is continue to live, grow, love and do our very best, right? I am on this journey with you as my heart aches to find true meaning and connection in life. Thinking of you, praying with you and in admiration of your courage and quest for living life freely…ROCK ON!

  11. I grew up with alcoholic parents and am also an alcoholic (sober 8 months today). Your story makes me so incredibly grateful that I got sober before I could do serious damage to my kids. It makes me painfully aware of how devasting this disease is families. You have an amazing attitude! Thank you for speaking your truth.

    • Hi Karen,
      Thanks so much for taking the time to read, comment and follow! It is my pleasure to share my story, and know it struck a chord or helped in some way. Congratulations on your sobriety! Making that decision each day is so very brave. I truly applaud you 🙂

      All my best,

  12. Michelle Dillon says

    I came across a link to your blog on Momastery. You are fantastic. Have a blessed day!

  13. Love you girl and always have! Hated that struggle and always have! Hiney was good, funny, but sick-I wish I could go back, sit at that big table your daddy built and eat some bar b que weenies, all while sweating out the hot Alabama summer! Neither one of us new at the time how that present time would shape our future…that pain is so beneficial to the five babies that share our past! Keep writing and sharing, you can touch so many! Love your story and always will!

    • Thanks Shell..It really means the world that you and I have never lost touch. You were there, in the thick of it with me, and it’s so important to still have you in my life! Now if I could just get you to come and visit me sometime 🙂 I love you dearly girl! xoxo

  14. O.M.G. As horrible as this story is, I was totally glued to my computer screen reading it. You are an amazing writer, and you really went through hell. But what I love is that, despite the horrible things you endured, you have a lot of love for your Mama. Good for you.

    I cannot wait to read more of your blog! I’m so glad you found me so that I in turn got to find you!


    • Aww..thank you so much! It wasn’t an easy life, but it has made me who I am, so I have no choice but to own it. Mama was a beautiful soul, yet very sick lady, and despite the disease and its effects…I miss her more every day, and now that the “ugly” is out there, I can concentrate on all the beautiful 🙂

      Likewise on finding each other! This blogosphere is fanfreakingtastic, isn’t it?

  15. Wow. That was beautifully written. It also gives me fuel for a piece I am writing about how long we can use our “bad childhood” as an excuse for out “bad adulthood”. Thank you for sharing your story.

  16. God, you’re a good writer. Glad you chose to link this one up to Dani’s Blog Hop.

    • calibamamom says

      Wow. Thanks for the compliment! Since Dani’s blog hop was the ‘Best Of’, this post was the obvious choice for me for many reasons. Glad you enjoyed it 🙂

  17. Wow, what a truly amazing and honest post. Well done you for writing it down and I pray it has helped other people in the same position. Amazing x

  18. This story really touched me. You are an insanely good writer. It sounds like you are lucky to have an amazing big sister and your child is lucky to have an amazing mom. Thank you for sharing!

    • calibamamom says

      Thank you for your kind words on my writing. It’s always been the easiest way for me to get things ‘out there’. I mean, I do talk way too much…with my hands a lot…so telling this story would probably end up looking like a game of charades gone rogue…lol. And yes, my sister is AMAZING. Actually all of my siblings are….she is just the one who was closest to the chaos.

  19. Everyone has a story. I’m glad I was able to read yours. Thank you for sharing. It’s incredible what the human spirit can endure.

  20. Wow. I’m speechless. We are exactly the same age, you and I. Your words touch me so deeply. I too am turning down a road to face my demons. At times, I’m not sure if I can be completely honest with myself or my readers and friends. Then I read something like this and it strikes a chord that resonates so profoundly, that it gives me the courage to continue. Thank you. http://www.mylifeaslucille.com/2013/03/i-am-not-weak.html

    • calibamamom says

      I too, am speechless. With tears in my eyes, because my hope for this post when I wrote it …besides the obvious need to free my own psyche & soul…was that it would touch people in such a way that if they too had things weighing heavy on them, it would give them inspiration and courage to move on and set them free. You know, we all belong to each other in this world 🙂


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