Chapter 26
Friday is Keira Day, which means I’ve officially entered my new phase as the parent-shaped adult who Googles "therapists for gifted burnout teenagers."
I found Dr. Landry online; five stars, calming presence, specializes in “identity confusion in former golden children,” which is maybe the most horrifyingly accurate phrase I’ve ever read. I booked her instantly and paid the extra fee, for a session today. Guilt clicked submit on my behalf.
She greets us in the waiting room looking exactly like someone who knits sweaters for stray cats and smells like chamomile tea. I instantly want her to adopt me.
“Give us an hour,” she says gently, ushering Keira inside like they’re about to enter a sanctuary, not unpack nineteen years of suppressed anxiety.
I’m left alone with my spiralling thoughts, my buzzing phone, and an hour to kill.
Which is how I end up staring at a “For Lease” sign across the courtyard like it’s a spiritual omen.
I mean, what’s more symbolic than real estate?
New space. New life. A clean toilet that doesn’t have his toothbrush near it.
I wander over like I'm in a dream, or a really chaotic indie film where the main character keeps saying this wasn’t the plan and then makes an impulsive life choice anyway.
The realtor’s already showing it to someone else, so I lurk awkwardly in the reception until they come down. Security is good here; they won’t even tell me the Wi-Fi password.
A man in a bedazzled blazer steps out of the elevator with a couple. Once they’re gone, he waves me in like I’m next in line for a roller coaster I didn’t realize was going to change my entire life.
It’s on the twelfth floor. There’s a weird little jolt in my stomach as we step into the elevator, either fear of heights or the sudden realization that I might actually be doing this.
The apartment? Stunning. Two bedrooms. Two bathrooms. The kitchen is a little small, but for Keira and me, it’ll do. Sunlight floods the space like it’s auditioning for a rom-com. There’s a balcony, and when I step out, wind rushes over my skin.
He starts giving me the whole pitch; schools, commute, families in the building; and I laugh, a little too loud, and say, “Oh no, the only kids I have are covered in fur and emotionally unstable.”
To his credit, the realtor doesn’t even flinch.
Just shifts gears like a pro. Starts talking about dog parks, pet deposits, how the elevator’s big enough for either a stroller or a golden retriever.
I almost like him for it. Almost want to offer him a juice box and say you’re doing amazing, sweetie.
I nod along, making all the right noises, already assigning rooms in my head. Master for me. The second bedroom for Keira. Because yes, apparently, I’ve evolved past the emotionally constipated stage of low-key resenting her and am now seeing the world through her eyes, and wow. It’s bleak.
It’s wild how once you crack open someone else’s perspective, your entire history starts rearranging itself like it’s trying on new clothes. Suddenly, things I thought were facts start to look more like… stories. My stories. Not hers.
Growing up, my parents let me do whatever I wanted, as long as I paid for it myself and arranged transport.
You want to do karate? Great, get a job.
Piano lessons? Better ask your grandparents.
I used to think that meant they didn’t care.
But Keira? They micromanaged her into oblivion.
Everything was a pros and cons list, a family debate, an agenda item on a PowerPoint slide called Shaping the Perfect Daughter.
I saw it as them caring. Paying attention. Loving her more.
But now? I see it for what it was: control. Wrapped in a bow and labelled structure. They didn’t guide her; they puppeteered her. Down to her hobbies. Down to her future.
I chose law because I liked finding facts, loopholes and didn’t want to rely on anyone. Keira got Operation for her seventh birthday and they basically slapped a white coat on her soul and called it destiny. And maybe; God, maybe; she never even wanted it.
There’s so much to unpack there. Like, shipping-container amounts. But instead of doing that, I smile at the realtor, and say something stupid like, “Love the natural light.”
Because it is nice.
He warns me it’ll go fast, “market’s wild right now”, but I don’t buy the pressure. I’ve been watching Zillow like its porn and half these listings sit longer than my unresolved feelings.
Still. I want it. Or something like it. Not forever, just… soon.
Because my house, the one Mike and I pretended was our dream, feels like it’s shrinking by the day. Seems silly that I wanted it so bad in the divorce, when I didn’t even want to accept it when his parents offered it in the first place.
Truth is, I wanted to take something from him, anything that would hurt him. He hates his job, his parents already like me more than him, so the only thing left, was the house. Which I will sell, as soon as the ink dries on the divorce papers.
For now, I will rent. But, sooner than later, I’m going to find a permanent home, even if I have no idea what that is yet.
I grab a brochure, his contact card and slip both into my bag before heading back toward the therapist’s office. I’m a few minutes early, which feels like a small personal win considering I’m usually running five behind and blaming it on "traffic"
The door creaks open a few minutes after I sit down, and out come Dr. Landry and Keira .
Keira’s eyes are red and watery, like she’s been crying hard, but she’s standing up straight, shoulders squared. Not slouched and sulky like she was when she went in.
“You, okay?” I ask, trying not to sound like I’m about to throw myself into mom-mode panic.
“I’m alright,” she says. And weirdly… I believe her. I think she actually means it. It’s not that tight, brittle I’m fine she’s been weaponizing like a shield. This one lands differently, like a small sigh of truth.
I know therapy isn’t magic. It’s not a one-session miracle cure. But damn it, I let myself believe this is a start. That maybe something shifted. Even a little.
Dr. Landry turns to me, voice calm and warm. “Can I steal you for a few minutes?”
Keira cuts in before I can respond. “Can I have the keys? I’ll wait in the car.”
“Sure,” I say, handing them over even though my gut clenches a little, because this version of her, the one that actually feels like a sister and not my replacement, is throwing me off balance. Like I’m meeting her for the first time.
She leaves with a little nod, not storming off, not running away, just… leaving. And I turn to follow Dr. Landry inside her office, bracing for whatever comes next, already feeling like maybe I need a session too.
The space is small but warm in that therapist-core way that’s clearly engineered for emotional unravelling.
Earth-toned throw pillows. An aggressively calm diffuser scent, lavender, maybe eucalyptus?
wafting through the air like it’s here to personally soothe my inner child.
There’s a worn velvet couch that looks very comfy and a mug that says Feelings Are Valid perched on a stack of books with titles like The Silent Scream of the Gifted Child and Boundaries: Why You Suck at Them .
It’s quiet, but not awkward. Peaceful, in the way libraries used to feel before the internet ruined them. One wall is covered in abstract art and across from it, a tiny sand garden with a wooden rake, which feels deeply metaphorical and mildly judgmental.
Dr. Landry gestures for me to take a seat, then sits down herself. “Keira told me everything,” she says softly. “The affair. Her relationship with your parents, with you.”
Oh. Okay. We’re just diving in, no floaties.
Then, she tilts her head slightly, studying me like she’s trying to see through all my performative nodding and faux-stable exterior. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” I say, instantly bracing for a lecture about parenting or boundaries or emotional constipation.
“Are you alright?”
And God, the way she says it; quiet, direct, no fluff; cuts deeper than all the other versions of that question I’ve heard lately. Not how are you? Not you holding up, okay? Just this simple, grounded are you alright , like she already knows I’m not .
I pause; throat tight. “I’m getting there.”
She nods like that’s a good enough answer, for now. “If you ever feel like you need someone to talk to, I’d be happy to recommend a therapist. Obviously not me. That’d be a major conflict of interest.” She smiles. “But my partner’s excellent.”
“I might actually take you up on that,” I say, which surprises both of us. Mostly me.
Then her tone shifts, gentler but firmer.
“Keira is a very misunderstood and deeply affected young woman. What she’s gone through; the constant pressure and emotional isolation, it’s left marks.
She’s learned to be overly submissive to male authority figures while being instinctively combative with female ones. ”
I blink. “You got all that from one session?”
She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “It’s a common pattern.
In a lot of households, fathers are the quiet enforcers while mothers carry the emotional workload, including the yelling.
Kids internalize it early, Dad says one thing and its law, Mom says ten and none of them stick.
It creates a kind of unconscious devaluation of female authority.
Especially when love and approval are attached to obedience. ”
I just stare at her, my insides rearranging themselves.
“The reason I’m telling you this,” she continues, “is because she’s coming out of an environment of extreme control. And I know your instinct might be to give her space, to let her have free rein after so many years of tight restrictions. But she still needs structure, just not suffocation.”
I nod slowly, everything in me recalibrating.
“Talk to her,” she says. “Set clear boundaries. And then, this is the important part, adhere to them. Consistency builds trust. She doesn’t trust that the rules will stay the same, or that people will. You can start to change that.”
It’s not magic. It’s not a fix. But it feels like… instructions. A way forward that doesn’t involve me flailing around in a panic, trying to reverse fifteen years of emotional damage with car rides and soft voices.
“Thank you,” I say, and for once I mean it without reservation.
Dr. Landry just smiles, like she knows I’m standing on emotional quicksand but at least I’m facing the right direction now.
Before I leave, she says, “Can I just say, what you’re doing… it’s admirable.”
And she says it so gently, like she’s offering me something fragile. Not praise exactly. More like recognition. Something warm and delicate that lands right in the centre of my chest and makes me want to sit back down and sob into her Feelings Are Valid mug.
“I’ve had patients abandoned for lesser crimes,” she continues, her voice that soft, firm cadence that makes you believe her even when you don’t believe in anything.
“The fact that you chose to stay, and not just stay, but look behind her actions, try to understand the why instead of just reacting to the what, I wish more people were like that.”
I don’t say anything. Mostly because my throat is tight and my brain is short-circuiting with every buried hurt, I thought I’d outgrown.
She adds, “Parents who favour one child over the other… they always think they’re doing what’s best. But it ends up a disservice to both their children.
One learns to break herself into pieces to stay in the light.
And the other-” she pauses, not for drama but for weight “-the other spends their whole life wondering why the sun never touched them.”
I blink. Hard. And then again.
“Thanks,” I manage, voice paper-thin, already turning toward the door like if I stay a second longer, I’ll melt into her carpet.
“Really,” she says, “Keira’s lucky to have you.”
No one’s said that to me before. Not like that. Not as if they meant it.
And I don’t know if she’s right. But I want her to be.
Which might be enough. For now .