I thought I was the exception. I wasn’t.

My parents were sober. Scratch that, they were ALL CAPS SOBER! With an exclamation point. Maybe two!! We didn’t just live in a dry house; we lived in a drought. There wasn’t a drop of wine, not a whiff of whiskey. Even the traditional Polish dishes from my family’s recipe books, the ones that practically required a can of beer, were met with substitutions.

I remember the “near beer” can in our fridge - white label, black font, just said “BEER.” It looked like a prop from a dystopian movie or maybe more like something straight out of the Dharma Initiative’s survival pantry on Lost. And honestly? Their version looked cooler than this can.

I grew up overhearing intense adult debates around our stovetop like:
“Does the alcohol cook off completely?”
“Is the kielbasa still tainted if it simmers for two hours?”
The conclusion? No one was willing to risk it. My parents weren’t playing games. They were breaking curses, right down to the simmering cabbage broth.

They told me that alcohol addiction was hereditary. That they had grown up in homes where booze didn’t just flow - it flooded. My mom, especially, bore the scars of witnessing what happened when alcohol ran the household. Her father drank at work, in the truck, at dinner. Tempers flared. Violence erupted. She swore it would end with her.

And so, I was raised in a fortress of sobriety, reinforced with parental warnings and ghost stories from the past. I didn’t just avoid alcohol, I feared it. I believed one sip could unleash hell.

The only people I ever saw drink were my grandparents. Yes, the same ones we were supposedly breaking the curse from. And I loved them fiercely.

My grandpa was first-generation American. His parents came over from Poland and brought with them, apparently, a deep affection for vodka and volatility. His childhood was hard - abusive, unhappy, and cut short when he lied about his age to enlist in the military. From what I gather, his mother (my great-grandmother) died from alcoholism, though that detail was mentioned only once and never unpacked.

My grandma, on the other hand, was sunshine in human form. She danced in the kitchen, sang off-key, and made me feel like the most precious person on the planet. Every year on my birthday, she’d say, “The day you were born was the happiest day of my life.” And I believed her. Maybe she said it to everyone, but it didn’t matter. With her, I was the center of the universe.

They both drank. Grandpa more often. Grandma only sometimes. I never saw the scary behavior my parents had warned me about. But even as a kid, I felt the tension — like danger could escape from the bottom of a bottle.

Then, when I was thirteen, something miraculous happened: they got sober. Both of them. Cold turkey. Booze and cigarettes - poof, gone. They found Jesus (again), joined AA, and turned their lives inside out.

Grandma, to me, remained unchanged - still soft, still golden, just without the smoky hugs and kisses. Grandpa, though, softened in ways I hadn’t expected. I saw a gentleness in him. A devotion to faith, to recovery that quietly moved me.

We weren’t particularly close in conversation, Grandpa and me. Until one day, when I was about 21, we were sitting at the kitchen table talking lightly, a rare moment of ease. I made an offhand comment about someone I knew who had relapsed after years of sobriety.
“Can you believe it?” I said. “Why would anyone go back after all that time?”

My grandpa looked up and met my eyes. It was the most direct he’d ever been with me.
“Melissa,” he said, “I’m just one drink away from living in a gutter.”

I didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t being dramatic. He was telling the truth. Nearly ten years sober, and he still felt the edge of it, right there, within reach.

I believed him. For the first time, the reality of addiction, not just the idea of it, hit me. My parents were right. This wasn’t just a fear. It was a fact. Alcohol had wrapped itself around my family tree like wisteria - beautiful from a distance, but quietly strangling the branches beneath.

Still, somewhere in the years that followed, I started to believe I could be the exception to this generational cycle. I could enjoy a margarita at happy hour or sip prosecco at brunch. I knew what addiction looked like - it was messy, loud, violent and that wasn’t me.
If anything, it just helped me relax. Loosen up. Become a shinier, more charming version of myself.

So, I began dipping my toes into the alcohol stream. Just a trickle. Just socially. I was too smart, too self-aware to be swept away.

But then, in an epic plot twist that no one saw coming, I became the sequel.

And this time, I knew how the story ended.