When Evie woke up that morning, she knew what needed to be done. At three in the afternoon, she approached her father. He was only mildly tipsy, his speech not yet slurred at that point.
“Daddy?” Evie said. “Daddy, I need to talk to you.”
“What is it, baby?” Rick’s face was guilt ridden, stricken and haunted.
“I know mom doesn’t want you to but…I think you need help, daddy. I think we need to get you into rehab or something, anything. I’m not happy anymore and I know you and mom aren’t either.”
Rick stared at a hole in the wall opposite him. His chapped lips were half parted and his thin hair stuck up in all directions.
“I…think you’re right.” Rick said. His voice teetered on the edge of anxiety, an edge Evie, for her sake, didn’t want to push him off of.
“What should we tell mom?” Evie asked, speaking in the voice one might use when approaching an injured animal.
“The truth,” he said.
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