Rewriting Stories

Audrey entered the room with a nervous energy that filled the air, thick and unmistakable.

“Is this the program where we get to read for our kids?” she asked, her voice filled with enthusiasm.

“Yes,” I replied.

A few minutes passed as we waited for other women to arrive. I realized that she’d be our only reader that afternoon. Normally, that might have left me feeling disappointed. But not today. Today felt different.

We sat together and talked about choosing books for her boys—ages seven and nine. After I explained how the program worked, we paused to pray. She bowed her head with reverence, and when we finished, she looked up, eyes shining with joy.

Then came the hesitation.

“Can I go get my makeup?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said.

She returned moments later, hands trembling as she applied mascara, then foundation. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. “I’m worried about the rings under my eyes,” she murmured.

“You look fine!” I assured her.

She nodded gratefully and took her place in front of the camera. I clicked record, gave her a nod, and she began to speak.

She spoke softly to her boys, explaining that she was in a place to help her get better, to become the kind of mommy they deserved. Her voice shook, but she pressed on. Finally, she held up the book she had chosen and turned to the first page.

I watched her hands as they trembled, page by page. She read two stories. Her hands shook throughout.

She read beautifully.

When we were done, she turned to me, her voice uneven.

“I’ve been in recovery for 14 days,” she said. “My dad—he’s in sober living—he convinced me to come. Thank you for letting me do this. I haven’t seen my boys in two years.”

She paused as her voice trembled.

“I was shooting up,” she confessed, eyes filling with tears. “I had track marks up and down my arms. I didn’t want them to see me like that.”

“Their father died in March. He overdosed. He died in my arms. We were married seven years. We were high school sweethearts. I’m the only parent the boys have now.”

“There’s this thing I heard once: ‘Sometimes someone has to die for someone else to live.’ If he hadn’t died... I wouldn’t be here right now. I just want to be here. For my boys.”

Everyone has a story. But for women in addiction recovery, their stories rarely come with fairy tale endings. Addiction carves its damage into their faces, their bodies, and their families.

But even in that wreckage—there’s love. Fierce, aching, unwavering love for their children.

In that moment, watching Audrey read to her sons through a camera lens, I was reminded once more: the Little Readers program doesn’t just share stories. It helps rewrite them.

Nashville musician Critter Fuqua describes addiction like this: “A person needs air to survive and it is known that when a person is drowning, they will push down any person to get air, no matter if it is their girlfriend or boyfriend, mother, father, or friend. It doesn’t matter. Getting air is paramount to all other things. It is not that they love air more than their loved ones.

Love has nothing to do with it. This is lizard brain stuff. Way back where the heart and lungs live and need oxygen to keep the body alive. It might sound extreme, but I assure you it is not. The alcoholic is drowning and needs to breathe.” 

I grew up as the child of an alcoholic father.

As a kid, I used to ask myself the questions no child should have to ask: Why me? Why does my dad care more about drinking than he cares about us?

I didn’t understand addiction then. I didn’t know that he wasn’t choosing alcohol over us—he was drowning in something he couldn’t escape without help.

Now, as an adult, I can only imagine what it would have meant to hear his voice reading me a book, to see him trying, to hear him say he was working to become the kind of dad his kids deserved.

That simple moment would have meant everything. I hope it means everything to Audrey’s boys.

Thank you for giving to make days like today possible, for me, for Audrey, and for her two boys.

With gratitude,

Andrea Shelton