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Yesterday was Easter.

The kids, though probably “too old” for such, still enjoyed a morning Easter egg hunt.

I (finally) managed to honor my own self-imposed “do nothing” for the day and had a nice hot bath followed by a long nap.

My husband spent the day cooking dinner, including many thougtful sides to indulge my vegetarism.

Of course there was beer but it didn’t seem to be the bride, as it is on the week-ends.  More a bridesmaid.  It seemed almost innocous, that tell-tale bottle, on the kitchen counter next to him as he lovingly cut, chopped and sauted raw ingredients into Easter dinner.

It seemed almost…

Normal.

And then near the end of dinner, it erupted.

Oddly, this time not my husband or even my husband and me.

This time it was the kids.

But I can’t help but feel my children are more canaries in the (drunken) coal mine than the real problem.

Because where does normal sibling rivalry end and the stress-of-living-with-an-alcoholic-father “rivalry” begin?

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