The call that changed my life came, like so many do, in the darkest hours of the early morning. Mine was at 3 a.m., in my dorm room, during the spring semester of my freshman year of college. "Your mom died," my dad said, panic in his voice. "Get on a plane home, and I'll meet you at the airport."

I had just talked to my mom hours earlier. What had happened?

I did as I was told and boarded a plane, numb and confused. But my dad wasn't waiting for me at the airport when I landed. Instead it was my Uncle Mike, waiting with the kind of news that leaves you gasping for air.

"Your dad is gone, too," he said solemnly.

I found out later that my parents had been harboring a dark secret that ultimately killed them, a secret that I've taken on the burden of owning now that they're gone: They were addicted to opioids.

"Overdose" is a dirty word. For years, I lied about how my parents passed away. The falsehoods were made easier by the concealing they had done themselves about their condition. Eventually I realized that had they told me their painful truth, I could have helped them battle their addiction, and that I needed to share my story in hopes that it could save others.

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