Getting Enough Tuesdays
Ten months before her wedding, my daughter wrote about the years she feared I might not survive to see it.
My daughter wrote this ten months before her wedding.
That matters, so I’ll say it first.
When Becca wrote these pages, she didn’t know whether the day she describes would ever come. She wrote toward it the way you write toward anything you want badly and can’t promise yourself. Leaning forward. A little afraid.
The day came.
I walked her down the aisle.
She’d had reason to wonder whether I would. For a long stretch in there, so had I.
So when you reach the part where she lets herself picture that morning, you’ll know something she couldn’t know when she wrote it: it happened.
The aisle was real.
The man waiting at the end of it was real.
And this is the part that still catches me.
So was I.
She was fifteen when the events in my memoir began. She remembers them more clearly than I do, and from the angle I never had. Reading the worst years of your life in your daughter’s voice is the strangest gift I know.
I’m still not sure I’ve earned it.
Here she is.
Afterword
by Rebecca Howard
When I finished reading my dad’s book manuscript, I sat at my office computer blotting a tissue to my weeping eyes, hoping no one would walk by. He had asked my permission to include the letter, but reading it again brought on a wave of emotion as I went back to the day I wrote it—and, more importantly, the day we were celebrating: his 13-year sober anniversary.
Growing up, I only have fond memories with my dad. Adventuring through our neighborhood, taking me and my sisters to Boston on weekends, and summers spent in the white mountains. When my parents divorced, my dad continued these traditions and began new ones in a new city. What I remember most is my dad’s unwavering commitment to being there for us. Whether it was showing up as my soccer coach, every school concert or rehearsal, and every after school activity - my dad was there.
Reading my dad’s book brought me back to that day in my mom’s kitchen when she took the call on our house phone. On the other line was my dad calling from rehab. He was safe and even at the age of 15 I knew this was a good thing. If he was in rehab, he couldn’t get drunk and hurt himself or worse. I had been worrying about him for the past few years as his drinking progressed to the point of passing out on the couch every night. I started to realize this wasn’t normal, and as much as I loved my dad, I also worried deeply about him.
My dad chose to get sober at a pivotal time in my life, just as I was entering high school. On weekends, I lived with him at a transitional community for homeless veterans—a unique experience that shaped both my empathy and my personality. He had his own apartment in a building with shared spaces for meals and recovery meetings. As the only teenagers in the building, my sisters and I earned our fair share of noise complaints for fighting. We had to learn to temper our disagreements—not just for peace, but to protect his housing.
Like my grandfather, my dad has always been a calm and even tempered person. When he got sober, he became even more patient with our bickering, our chaos, and especially with my emotional spirals over schoolwork. I remember countless nights where he sat beside me, calm and steady, helping me work through English essays—never writing them for me (no matter how much I begged). Around that time, he taught me how to drive. I’ll never forget the night a deer jumped in front of our Jeep—he didn’t flinch. He just told me how proud he was of the way I handled it. I can’t imagine what my life would’ve been like if he had kept drinking—or worse, followed through on ending his life. I wouldn’t have had him for those moments.
Over the years, I’ve sat in many church basements, office buildings, and community centers for his meetings. I listened to people stand up, introduce themselves, and share their stories. I remember whispering to myself, “That won’t be me.” But the truth is, those rituals gave me tools I didn’t know I was collecting. They helped me steer clear of alcohol and drugs through most of my teenage and early adult life. It wasn’t until after college, when I found myself drawn too deeply into the party scene, chasing a sense of adventure and escape. With my dad’s support, therapy, and the lessons I learned in those church basements, I was able to change my path. Today, I’m living in Boston with my partner surrounded by a gaggle of animals (my dream come true).
Reading my dad’s book helped me see how deeply our lives are intertwined. I’ve always been a voracious reader, a runner, and a theatre kid just like him. We both have a sense of mischief and a penchant for questioning authority. Like him, I’ve wrestled with that sense of emptiness, the restlessness, and the urge to escape. But I’ve also inherited his resilience, his creativity, and his capacity for hope.
One moment I think about often is my upcoming wedding day and how lucky I feel knowing my dad will be there to walk me down the aisle. That moment, like so many others, almost didn’t happen. When someone we love dies, especially by suicide, it’s not just their absence that hurts, but all the moments we lose along with them. The milestones. The everyday laughs. The second chances. It’s the moments we never get to have that leave the deepest ache.
If you’re reading this and you’re struggling, please know: there is help. You are not alone. At the end of this post, you’ll find a list of resources—including my dad’s personal email—because he knows that connection can save lives. There’s always a path forward, and people waiting to walk it with you.
Epilogue
Ten months later, I walked her down the aisle.
The thing about second chances is that while you’re living through them, they rarely feel like second chances.
They feel like ordinary days.
A soccer game.
A driving lesson.
A night helping with an English paper.
Weekends in a veterans’ housing program.
A recovery meeting in a church basement.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing cinematic.
Just days.
Then one morning you find yourself standing beside your daughter at the back of a ceremony. Music starts. You walk her down the aisle.
The miracle wasn’t the wedding.
The miracle was getting enough Tuesdays.
If you’re struggling, here’s where to start.
Keith’s Email keithhoward@gmail.com I check this daily and promise to respond as soon as I can. Including a phone number can make the response quicker.
📞 National Support Resources for Drug/Alcohol Recovery & Suicide Prevention
988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline 📱 Call or text 988 🌐 www.988lifeline.org 24/7 support for suicide, mental health, and substance use crises.
SAMHSA’s National Helpline — Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration 📱 1-800-662-HELP (4357) 🌐 www.samhsa.gov/find-help/helplines/national-helpline Free and confidential, 24/7, 365 days a year. Treatment referral and information in English and Spanish.
NAMI HelpLine — National Alliance on Mental Illness 📱 1-800-950-NAMI (6264) · or text “NAMI” to 62640 🌐www.nami.org/help Monday–Friday, 10 a.m.–10 p.m. ET. Peer support and referrals for mental health (not a crisis line — for crises, use 988 above).
Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) 🌐 www.aa.org 📍 Find meetings, literature, and support for alcohol recovery.
Narcotics Anonymous (NA) 🌐 www.na.org 📍 Fellowship and recovery resources for those with drug addiction.
I love this. Becca has also inherited your gift of writing. Congratulations to all of you! ❤️