111. A Strange Sanctuary
CHAPTER 111
A STRANGE SANCTUARY
MARGAUX
I sit in the truck on a video call with my therapist, her gaze steady but kind. The parking garage is quiet except for the faint hum of passing traffic. It feels like a strange sanctuary—a dirty bubble where the chaos of my life can’t quite reach me.
“He’s following through on everything he promised,” I say, my voice tinged with both hope and weariness. “He’s even listening to an audiobook with me about quitting drinking. We talk about each chapter as we finish it, like a mini book club. It’s... nice.”
“That’s great progress,” she says, leaning forward slightly. “But let me ask you something—does it feel sustainable?”
The question hangs in the air. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I... don’t know. He’s been sober for a couple of months now. He’s helping more. He hasn’t been to the tents or smoking. He’s even been kind to Sabre.”
She nods, but her expression remains neutral. “That’s good to hear. But I want to be clear with you—what you’ve described before—all of it—is abuse. It’s not just about the drinking or the smoking or the fights. The dynamic between you two is unbalanced. You’re carrying the weight of this relationship. You’re still acting as a caregiver, not an equal partner.”
I feel a familiar sting in my chest, a mix of shame and defensiveness. “I know we’re working through things,” I say, my voice quieter. “He’s trying.”
“I believe that he’s trying,” she replies gently. “And I believe that he does love you in his own way. And that you love him. But trying doesn’t erase the fact that you’re in a situation where you’re constantly managing his emotions, his behavior, his life. You’re the one making sure he gets out of bed, that he’s doing anything productive. You’re paying for everything. And when you add the history of physical abuse to this picture, it becomes a dangerous situation for you—whether he’s drinking or not.”
Her words hit like a punch to the gut. I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. She continues, her tone firm but compassionate.
“I want you to keep the domestic violence hotline number saved on your phone. Make sure your phone is always charged and with you. And I still want you to have a go-bag ready for you and Sabre. It’s not a sign of giving up—it’s a sign of being prepared. You never know what’s going to happen when you’re with someone as volatile as he is.”
I nod mutely, my throat tight. I feel numb, like my body has shut down to protect itself from the weight of what she’s saying.
The words are true. I know they are.
But I don’t want to be the kind of woman who needs a go-bag. I don’t want to live in fear of my partner hurting me, my cat, or destroying the fragile sense of stability I’ve built. I don’t want that life.
“I know you want things to get better,” she says, her voice softer now. “But don’t treat baseline behavior—things that any partner should do—as extraordinary. You deserve so much more than that.”
Her words linger long after we hang up.
At night, Timmy wraps me in his arms in bed, his warmth enveloping me like a comforting cocoon. “You’re my best friend,” he murmurs, his voice soft, sincere and full of affection. “I’m so lucky to have you.”
For a moment, I let myself believe it. Wrapped in his embrace, I imagine a future where this version of Timmy—the kind, sober, loving version—is the one who stays. Where his promises are real. I picture us working through our issues, healing together, building a life that isn’t defined by chaos and hurt. I let myself believe in the version of him that I’ve always wanted him to be.
“I love you,” I whisper, clinging to the hope in my words. “More than anything.”
He tightens his grip around me. “I love you, too.”
Love is supposed to be enough, isn’t it?
If I love him hard enough, pour enough kindness and patience into him, surely he’ll become the man he says he wants to be.
But love alone can’t pay the bills, and the financial strain of supporting us both looms like a shadow over my every thought.
I push the thought away, burying it under layers of optimism, clinging to the belief that once he’s steady, he’ll contribute. Once he’s better, everything will be okay. Just like he says it will be.
But somewhere deep inside, a voice whispers:
Until he doesn’t make you feel safe anymore.
In the weeks that follow, Timmy’s sobriety continues. He listens to the audiobook with me, nodding along at all the right moments and enthusiastically discussing key themes afterwards.
He designs hats and focuses on small creative projects.
For the first time in months, we laugh together without tension lurking in the background.
But I’m beginning to notice something interesting—the man before me isn’t the Timmy I fell for. Without alcohol sharpening his edges or igniting his dangerous charm, he feels... ordinary. He’s not funny, not insightful, not even all that interesting. He’s definitely not very smart, and doesn’t have anything thought-provoking to say.
The wit and charm that once captivated me are dulled, replaced by someone quieter, less dynamic. His moods still swing unpredictably, often dictated by trivial frustrations—a TV show, a passing comment, an imagined slight. But the danger also feels muted, his edges less jagged.
His charisma—the thing that pulled me in so strongly at the start—is gone, leaving behind someone I don’t know if I even like.
I watch him snuggle my cat, murmuring sweet nothings to him like he’s the most precious creature on earth. “You’re the best cat I’ve ever met,” he says, his voice dripping with affection. “I love you so much, little guy.” It warms my heart, even as it breaks a little.
Sabre loves him. Sabre trusts him. Shouldn’t I try to do the same?
I remind myself of the good moments, the softness he’s capable of. But my therapist’s words ring in my ears: Don’t mistake baseline behavior for extraordinary.
And yet, I try. Isn’t this what I wanted?
Still, I can’t ignore the growing sense that the man in front of me isn’t the one I fell for.
I want to believe in him. I want to believe in us. But deep down, I wonder if the real Timmy—the sober, unfiltered Timmy—is someone I even like.
And that thought terrifies me most of all.