June 9, 2020:

Her apartment was "disordered". That's the DSM terminology, I believe. It's an understatement, for her apartment and her life.

There was food on the walls, empty bottles on and under all surfaces, urine in the carpet, furniture overturned. A landscape of violent rage. That though is my hindsight judgment. At the time I knew she drank but hadn't connected that knowledge to her housekeeping.

Originally her moving in was about borrowing my guest room until she could take care of herself. I thought that would be a month or two, while I helped her sort her budget. "What are your expenses?", I asked, with a spreadsheet open. Writing this now makes me shake my head. It's not possible to imagine a more naive question.

Food, car, utilities, rent. It didn't seem that much. Her income from the restaurant should have covered it, especially with free meals several times a week. Unconsidered at first was the cost of alcohol. Three bottles of $7 wine per night was $650 ish monthly, roughy equal to the rest of her expenses combined.

Well — simple, then. Quit drinking, and done.

Are you laughing now? You should be.

She didn't. Laugh, that is. She looked at me with grave pity, a bone-deep sorrow for what she knew would happen.