Chapter 8
Lucy began recovering in pieces.
A full meal.
A full night of sleep.
A shower without checking the door.
A phone in her own hand.
Jack stayed glued to her side.
He watched her breathe.
She watched him watching.
They were both afraid the other would vanish.
Therapy started for both.
Then for me.
My therapist asked, “What are you most afraid of?”
“That Jack will never forgive me.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
My throat closed.
“Then I will still have to become someone worthy of not being forgiven.”
She nodded.
“That is a beginning.”
Supervised visits with Jack began at a family center.
The first one lasted twenty minutes.
He sat across from me and said nothing.
I brought no gifts.
His therapist said gifts could feel like pressure.
So I brought only myself and the truth.
“I believed Diane,” I said. “I was wrong.”
Jack stared at the table.
“You called Mom selfish.”
“Yes.”
“She heard you once.”
My chest tightened.
“What?”
“Diane played a voicemail for her. You said Mom was dead to us.”
I remembered the voicemail.
I had been angry.
Diane had handed me wine.
Told me to release my pain.
I had said unforgivable things into a phone I thought Lucy would never hear.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
Jack’s eyes filled.
“Sorry doesn’t unhear it.”
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t.”
He left after that.
May you like
I sat alone for ten minutes.
Then I went to therapy again.
