1982, the day before Thanksgiving. Kelly B. is staring at a payphone in a bar, bankrupt and broken, with no one left to call. She describes the "chuggalug" of 151 and Coca-Cola that started it all—a liquid massage that turned her into a "dancing fool" and eventually a "puddle" on the floor after the sheriffs delivered news of her husband's death. For twenty-two years, she lived in the wreckage, banging on doors at 2:30 a.m. to see the children she had lost.
The turning point came in a jail cell, locked in with a "crazy lady" only to realize she was staring at her own reflection. After finding a Higher Power and a gritty group called the Snake Pit, she was told the only way to save herself was to work newcomers with "intensity." From the Foley House—the first recovery home for women and children—to a stroke that nearly stole her voice, Kelly's life became a series of "yeses" to service. She eventually traded her condos and furniture for a chance to be a friend to her children.
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