I went to rehab with a notebook. I was there, I told myself, because I was doing research for a book about a woman who’s an addict and who had to go to rehab because her relapse was affecting her family life—specifically her ability to parent an infant. The program was a three-week deal and it was a two-hour drive from my home in Toronto, Ontario. My husband drove me there, grimly, as if I wasn’t really going for research but rather because I needed help.
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