My name is Emma. I am a 39-year-old mother of a former drug addict. I was born and raised in the UK, in the London epicenter of bars and parties. I had a fleeting fascination with smoking and drinking before I became pregnant. Becoming a mom made me responsible and made me feel that I had a duty to raise my kids right. The bars were an interesting place to relax and to meet some very well-to-do men in the area. They’d lavishly spend every dime to impress the local dames, even in those days.
I could never imagine that I would one day find my son with blue lips lying half-naked in the bathtub. Luckily for me, medics were nearby with Narcan to resuscitate him from the fatal overdose. How could someone as intelligent as myself, someone who made their living in accounting — checking every detail, have been so stupid as to overlook the signs of my son’s drug abuse.