Is it their way of saying, “We love you”?

One of the best things about getting sober is that the interventions stop. You no longer have to worry that every encounter with your family is a potential ambush, that they’re going to waste their breath trying to convince you that maybe there are better options for life than being a non-functional alcoholic.

Unless you’re in my family. Because with them, a pesky little fact like “I’ve been sober for 8 years now, guys” means nothing.
I know because earlier this week, one of my younger brothers, Thor, sat me down for an intervention.

“I’m really concerned, Keely,” he started. My heart sank.
“Like, legitimately worried,” he continued.
“What do you guys eat when I’m not here to go to the grocery store?
I just…well, I’ve never seen a loaf of whole wheat bread consumed that quickly. It’s just whole wheat bread! We can get you more!”

Then Sam, my fiancé, chimes in, “Uh, hey bro. How many slices of bread did you eat?”
Thor shrugs. “Four.”
Sam turns to Thor’s girlfriend, Olivia. “You?”
“Four too.”
Sam says, “Well I’ve had two.”
All eyes on me. “Only three!”

Then they all exhale heavily. With relief, I assume. Thank goodness they don’t have to do something about my bread problem.
But I’m mistaken.
“Who eats three pieces of bread?” They start in. “This is why there is only one slice left and no one can make a sandwich.”
Then it hits me. Turns out I’m just very intervention-able.
I suppose we all have our crosses to bear.

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