He told me the confession from the other side of the wall. It was like a real confessional. I couldn’t see his face to see if he was lying. He couldn’t see my face to see if I disapproved.

For the last four nights, I’ve been drinking hard liquor until I pass out.

When I receive confessions like these, my first instinct is to not believe them. My psyche cries out, “No!” and most of the time, my mouth does too. It wasn’t refuted and then I instantly wanted to disbelieve it. He’s lying. He’s just telling me that to make me feel sorry for him. He’s just telling me that to make me think he’s tough.

What am I supposed to do with knowledge like that? If I’m just supposed to butt out, why would he tell me? Was it just a slip? Was he lying? Please let him be lying. Am I supposed to intervene? Am I supposed to hire the A-Team to find him drinking himself into a stupor every evening and rescue him from himself? Maybe Charlie’s Angels would be better. How do I hire Charlie’s Angels?

I went from denial to savior within seconds. You should? What you need is? I’m sure it just sounded like blah, blah, blah? My mothering routine is so tedious, it actually bores me. Even when I give advice to others, it makes me want to rebel against myself. Before I could stop myself, I was spewing advice. Worthless advice, I realize. Hell, if I had said, “You need to adopt a cat,” that would have been better advice. He didn’t even ask for advice.

He gives me the impression of a man who has been worshipping at the same altar for too long. So many prayers given to a graven image. Even though the god doesn’t reply, he keeps sacrificing at the same altar. What could I have said to this man?