I unfasten the delicate lock, turn to a fresh page, and ready my ballpoint pen. Click. Dear Diary, let me say at the outset that I once counted myself among the luckiest of women. Dennis had a lucrative job as a software engineer at Micromega. Our daughter, Angela, loved school and always brought home top grades. Thanks to the saltwater fish fad, my little pet shop—Carlotta’s Critturs in Copley Square—was turning a tidy profit. The first signs of trouble were subtle. I’m thinking especially of Dennis’s decision to become a Boston Bruins fan and a Philadelphia Flyers fan simultaneously, an allegiance that served no evident purpose beyond allowing him to watch twice as much hockey as before. I also recall his insistence on replacing our coffee cups and drink tumblers with ceramic mugs bearing the New England Patriots logo. Then there was Dennis’s baseball-card collection, featuring the 1986 Red Sox starting lineup. Wasn’t that a hobby more suited to a ten-year-old? It soon became clear that Dennis was battling a full-blown addiction.
