My son has grown. His shoulders are broader, though still a little sloped. He still carries big burdens for a 19-year-old. He's been crying, but still his eyes radiate the clarity of a sober mind and body, after more than seven months in recovery. He is here for a short visit, to let me be his mom for a few days -- a role that got short-circuited by his addiction. His friend in California was just killed by the disease, found by his little sister after he apparently overdosed. "He was so alive," my son said, looking at his Facebook wall that has become a memorial. Though my son has lost friends before, this one hit him hard -- and me, too. The news his friend's parents got was my -- and every parent's -- worst nightmare. The disease of addiction knows no boundaries of class, race, education, intelligence or age. It can take the young, the old, the brilliant and the average. It is a deadly disease. Those of us who've lived with addiction and continue to recover ourselves, understand this deeply. So my son came home to grieve a little, to hold his little sister, one of the most powerful motivators for his sobriety. And to see his dad. His family began breaking up while he was away. He is here recovering the pieces for himself, finding the love in a new form. He calls it a Love Mission. "To be with the people I love, because you never know what will happen the next day." But he is taking great care to preserve his life, to live each day as if it were his last and his first. And I am so grateful to be able to wrap my arms around him today.