Eight months later
I sat on the floor in the living room, trying to teach Frances to walk. Kurt carried around a video camera, taping every second. Suddenly the phone rang. Kurt turned off the camera and answered, "Hello?" He said, "Who the hell is this?" He yelled, "Well that's a fucking lie!" "Kurt, what's wrong?" I asked. He put his finger to his lips try to remain calm. His nostrils flared, I could tell he wanted to pick the phone up and smash it against a wall, "I've been sober for almost two years!... Well I don't know where you got that shit from but if you ever call my house again I'm gonna sue your ass and that seedy shit house you work for, for every goddam penny you have. Now tell that to your boss and while your at it you can tell her to kiss my sober ass!" He slammed the phone down and stomped upstairs. I picked Frances up and we went after him, "Let's see if daddy's okay." I said to her softly. She smiled. I pushed the door open to find Kurt sitting in a corner with his chin in his knees silenly sobbing.