I always honored my father’s work. He was a college professor in Marquette, MI— a town known for beautiful summers and very long winters. Like me, my dad was a writer and taught creative writing. Often, we would be in a restaurant, and a former student would approach the table and explain to us how my father had changed his or her life regarding literature or writing. Local celebrity might be a stretch, but my father was very popular. My mother, on the other hand, was a substance use disorder counselor. In a town where winter can start in October and end in April, alcoholism and alcohol misuse are rampant. My mother had no shortage of clients, but as far as I could tell, she was anything but popular.

When I was in my twenties, I attended the university where my father taught. I also played in a bar band called Goddog. As a result, I did my own experimenting with heavy drinking, and I ran in crowd for whom drinking was a huge pastime. I would later learn that for many of them, it was also a huge problem. During my days in Goddog, I ran into people who I learned were my mother’s clients. On two separate occasions, these clients approached me in the bar. One guy had a freshly poured glass of beer. He toasted it toward me and said bitterly, “Tell your mom hello.” Then he took a long drink. The other guy approached me in much the same way, with a drink in hand, but he told me to tell my mom to go to hell. Both men, I later learned, were alcoholics. But, at the time, they colored my perception of my mother. She was a bummer. She was a buzz kill. She was anti-fun, like a tax auditor or an insurance adjuster.

It’s only now since the release of my novel, Detroit Muscle, that I’m beginning to understand and honor my mom’s work. The book tells the story of a recovering OxyContin addict trying to put his life back together. To write this book, I did research, which included reading many blogs of those recovering from addiction. I was amazed by how many people credited their counselors for getting them started and keeping them on the road to recovery. More often than not, the counselors were not named. Substance misuse counseling is a private arrangement. It’s something that happens between two people behind closed doors. It’s intimate and necessary, and it saves lives. Thinking back, I remember my mom being approached by people in restaurants, too. Usually she was on her way to or from the restroom. People I didn’t know would approach her, speak a few quiet words, and give her a long hug. These were the clients for which her work made a difference. These were the clients she had helped save from addiction.

I ended up dedicating my book to my mother—my recognition of the significance of her working life.

For every copy of Detroit Muscle sold through Jeff’s website, Jeff will donate $3 to Shatterproof. Visit his site now to place your order.