As we stepped through the sliding glass doors of Walgreens, my dad’s words hung in the air. Avoiding eye contact with me, he muttered, “I need to pick up my pills, wait for me in the toy aisle.” The doors closed behind us with a swoosh, and I watched him, unable to tear my eyes away. Before reaching the pharmacy window, he grabbed two small boxes off the shelf and discreetly slipped them into the pocket of his shiny Chicago Cubs jacket. My dad, a proud recovering alcoholic and devoted