My dad drove an old GMC that barely ran. My stepmom Donna usually drove everywhere, so when he pulled it out that morning, I knew he wanted to take me to the train station himself. The engine was loud enough that neither of us had to talk. He turned up the radio. Good Vibrations. I was too hungover to appreciate the irony. At the BART station for the San Francisco bound train, he left the engine running and said, “You’re in charge of you, Nick.” I forced a smile and shut the door. I was 33. I’d grown up in California but spent almost a decade in New York working as a singing waiter, waiting for my big break. By then, I was drinking wine from a coffee mug before my shifts. My family knew I was struggling. But it wasn’t until Thanksgiving that they finally saw how bad it…