“If anything happens to me,” Mom used to say, “Quentin will take care of you.”
And for a long time, he did.
Then he hit 30, and it was like someone swapped him out with a stranger.
It started small.
Missed texts. Late arrivals. Vague excuses.
He showed up to my daughter Mia’s birthday late, eyes bloodshot, smelling like old sweat and cologne.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Just tired,” he said, forcing a smile.
Then, I found the pills.
A prescription bottle in his truck console, label half scratched off.
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