black Euphaedra butterfly

It was a summer afternoon up in Albany, New York, when I got the phone call. I was in my apartment getting ready to go to work. I picked up and it was my father on the other end of the line. He wouldn’t tell me anything – just that I should get in the car and come home right way, and to let my boss know I wouldn’t be at work that night.

Home was Kingston, about an hour south. When I got there my parents told me that my brother Ryan was dead. He had overdosed. I fell to my knees. I thought my life was over.

It wasn’t.