Chapter 15
COLE
Two weeks after becoming alcohol-free, I began noticing changes.
I no longer woke up feeling hungover, and I had more energy than I had in years.
My skin looked healthier, and I wasn’t stomping around like a grumpy bear ready to snap at everyone.
Sleep, however, was still a struggle. When I drank, I used to collapse into unconsciousness and call it rest. This was different.
This was real sleep, and my body had not yet relearned how to do it naturally.
By the third week, a routine had taken shape.
I went to bed at the same time every night and started my mornings with meditation and yoga, followed by a healthy breakfast and group counselling.
Afternoons were usually spent meeting with Silvia, then heading to the gym or joining activities with the other residents.
In the evenings, I took walks and allowed myself to reconnect with nature in a way I had not done in years.
The activities kept me busy, but the empty time still felt daunting.
Alcohol had filled every corner of my life, and when it disappeared, the silence felt enormous.
I finally understood, with painful clarity, how much time and energy I had wasted chasing it, recovering from it, and repeating the same cycle again and again.
I knew I needed something to fill the hollow space alcohol had left behind.
“What do you do with the rest of your time here when you are not coming to see me?” Silvia asked one afternoon.
“Nothing much, besides the gym,” I replied with a shrug.
“Maybe you should think of a hobby.”
“Like what?”
“Well, what did you enjoy doing before you let it go?”
I thought about it for a moment.
Then it came to me.
Photography.
I had loved taking pictures of Eva and Chloe.
I had loved taking pictures of nature, of anything that spoke to me in a particular second.
Looking through a camera lens changed the way I saw the world.
Ordinary things became beautiful. Fleeting things became permanent.
A single glance, a burst of sunlight through leaves, a laugh caught midair—somehow the lens made all of it matter more.
Photography had once made me feel connected to life.
It was also because of photography that I met my late wife.
She had been sitting in the park eating her lunch and reading a book when I clicked her picture from a distance.
Her smooth, thick blonde hair framed her heart-shaped face, and even then, there had been something about her that held me still for a moment longer than it should have.
When she caught me staring, she yelled at me, and somehow that ended with me asking her out.
Remembering that now made the corner of my mouth lift.
Borrowing a camera from the centre, I began walking the community trails and taking photos of flowers and landscapes. At first, it was simply a way to pass the time, but gradually it became something more. The camera gave me a reason to slow down, to look closely, and to notice beauty again.
Through photography, meditation, and reflection, I found myself reconnecting with nature in a deeper, almost spiritual way.
I hiked through the backcountry and captured the island’s landscapes—the forests, the shifting light through the trees, the stillness of the water, and the rugged cliffs against the sky.
Everything felt more alive through the lens, and for the first time in years, the noise in my head lulled into a sense of calm.
Oddly enough, the same feeling sometimes came back when I thought about that afternoon in my house—the moment when Jiya had refused to leave, and Lucas had wrapped his small arms around me.
Something about them had pierced the darkness I had been living in.
A couple of days later, I started taking pictures around the centre—of the residents, their families when they visited, and the staff.
I loved the joy on people’s faces when I showed them the pictures. Capturing a moment in time and handing that memory back to someone brought me joy.
I had forgotten I was capable of feeling, which reminded me how beautiful and ever-changing the world was, even when grief tried to convince me otherwise.
For once, I felt accomplished.
“Do you think you could approve a day out for me?” I asked Silvia during one of our sessions. “I want to attend a friend’s restaurant opening.”
Her eyebrows furrowed.
“I got an invitation,” I said, showing it to her. “I co-own the restaurant.”
“Hmm... let me check for you,” Silvia said. “If the management does approve, it will only be for a couple of hours, and you will be chaperoned.”
“Not a problem,” I said, nodding.
I wanted to be there for the event.
I wanted to be there to see my wife’s dream come alive again.
I wanted to see the restaurant the way Eva had once imagined it—full of life, laughter, and people enjoying the place we had dreamed of building together.
But that was not the only reason.
I also wanted to be there for the woman and her son who had walked into my broken life and refused to walk away.
The memory of Jiya standing in my destroyed living room flashed through my mind. She had looked straight at me while I was at my worst—drunk, angry, shattered—and she had not flinched. Instead, she had stayed.
And Lucas.
That kid had somehow managed to break through a wall that two years of grief had built around me.
The idea no longer felt like walking into ruins, but like stepping into something worth rebuilding.