>

Six years to the day after my last drink, Noelle and I exchanged vows by candlelight, as snow fell gently in the dark. A tenor belted out "Ave Maria." Grace, eight years old, was so excited she kept standing on Noelle's dress. James rang the church bell at the end of the service. Dad gave a heartfelt toast, acknowledging the distance that Noelle and I had each traveled to get to that day. Fittingly, inside my wedding band Noelle had inscribed "To the moon and back," a line from the children's book Guess How Much I Love You.

Three and a half years after marrying Noelle—on a sunny summer morning—our 18-month-old son, Timothy, woke me up early to play. I followed him out the back door and into the field overlooking the Atlantic Ocean behind the summer home Noelle and I had built. Osprey circled up high and then dive straight down, splashing into the water in search of breakfast.

We sat on chairs in the sand that afternoon. The sun, the waves, my beautiful wife and three happy children sank into my heart, producing the blissful sensation of belonging; a feeling far better than the fleeting high of booze, deal-making or illicit sex. Finally I didn't have to wait for my lies to catch up with me. I was aware of the people that I had hurt terribly along the way. The pain and suffering was not something I would ever want to go through again; having made it to the other side—to that beach surrounded by the family that I adored—I saw how every step was required to find my way home.