confusing choices open and close doors

If my father lived, he would be ninety-seven years old at the end of April.  I can’t imagine him as an old man, because he was forty-eight when he killed himself.  In my opinion, alcohol played an enormous role in why he chose suicide, caught in a twofold trap of craving and obsession, wanting to stop, unable to live without it. Continue reading “the story of April” »