Chapter 56
Chapter Fifty-Six
Mara
I handle about a thousand questions a day from my child.
Some are easy, the sort she asks while brushing her teeth or tying her shoelaces.
Others require encyclopedias, library visits, or existential stamina I don’t always possess.
I get through them all somehow. But the one question I can’t endure—no matter how many breathing techniques I rehearse—is when my therapist, Courtney Shawl, leans forward in her soft voice and asks, “And how does that make you feel?”
It makes me want to slam my forehead into the couch cushion and shout, Are you fucking kidding? I’m here because I avoid emotions. The entire point is that I don’t want to feel.
But I smile, nod, and pretend I’m someone who welcomes introspection.
This is my fourth session with her, and I haven’t lost it yet. The lavender spray she mists around the room should probably win an award because it keeps me from unraveling every few minutes. That’s good, right? Progress in aromatherapy form.
Plus, there’s a good incentive waiting for me when I get home.
Alec will be there, and he’s promised lunch.
And on the rare days his friends drift through the penthouse, I get to hang out with Kit, Cleo, or Aly—women who are slowly becoming close friends.
That’s the silver lining of this ninety-minute interrogation: I get rewarded for surviving it.
“Mara, are you with me?” Courtney asks.
“Yes, of course.” I stare at a smudge on her bookshelf, trying to gather an answer that doesn’t sound like a tantrum.
“I’m just attempting to identify what emotion shows up today when I remember that everyone lied to me for years.
” It sounds sarcastic, but I can’t bring myself to care.
I’m surviving, not performing sainthood.
Mom and I aren’t talking at the moment. I know that Alec promised to fly her to us but I’m not ready to confront her.
I need a minute to figure out my emotions.
I need space to understand the avalanche of truths buried in my family.
I have to grieve the loss of my aunt—who was actually my mother.
Try to wrap my head around the fact that I was given up for adoption when I was born and no one was brave enough to tell me the truth.
Also, my biological father is alive, and the other . . . I want to confront him because what he did, leaving, was shity. Confront my mother who lied about my origin. That was shitty.
I’m angry. I’m sad. I’m confused. I’m more emotions than my own body has room for.
But today . . . “Today I’m exhausted,” I finally say.
“It’s exhausting to try to figure out how not to be angry.
It drains me to try to avoid anger. I keep wondering why she left me with her sister, but never told me the truth when I was old enough to understand. ”
“Those are valid questions,” Dr. Shawl states. “Have you given any thought about reading the letters Lina left? How about talking to your mom?”
“I . . .” The sigh slips out before I can stop it. “I hate feeling abandoned.” The words sting, but they’re true. “Everything feels amplified now. My father left. My late husband . . . even when he was alive, he was absent. I spent so many nights alone, raising Mila, pretending I was fine, and it—”
I stop. Because suddenly it’s everything at once.
The hurt, the confusion, the loneliness that built a home in me long before I learned how to live with it.
The whole let’s tackle one issue at a time strategy collapses when every issue leads me back to the same truth: people leave.
I end up alone. And the only reason I want to get better is for Mila.
Not for myself. Not yet. I’ve spent years avoiding the collapse, and yes, it works . . . until it doesn’t.
“It’s not like I can confront Samuel for what happened—or Lina,” is the first thing that comes out of my mouth.
“You want to confront those who can give you answers?” she asks.
“Yes.” The word comes out before I think. “I could start with my father who left. Or my mother who lied. Or my biological father who never came back after the night I was born.” My throat tightens. “But I can’t say anything to those who are no longer with us.”
“You could write letters, or in your journal,” she suggests. “Are you using it?”
“Mostly to communicate with Alec,” I admit. “It’s easier to tell him how I feel there. He listens without judging, and somehow he comforts me without pushing me to crumble in front of him. Even though he keeps insisting he can handle a sobfest any day of the week.”
“And how are things between the two of you?”
“Our relationship is growing,” I say slowly, tracing a seam in the couch cushion. “Even though we tell ourselves we’re waiting. We need emotional stability before we take the next step.”
I’m not sure what the next step looks like. We steal kisses here and there when Mila isn’t around. We don’t want to confuse her. All I know is this: I want him. I am falling in love with the man who walked into my life with his guarded heart and his impossible loyalty.
The question is no longer if.
It’s What am I going to do next?
Courtney studies me for a moment, her expression calm in a way I both resent and rely on.
“Mara,” she says softly, “you’re carrying a lot.
Anyone sitting in your chair would feel overwhelmed.
But you don’t have to confront everything at once.
Healing doesn’t have to be linear. It’s not an all-or-nothing leap. ”
I swallow hard, waiting for her to keep going because, for once, I actually need the guidance.
“One place to start,” she continues, “is giving yourself permission to approach each thing at your own pace. Not the pace you think you should be moving at, not the pace others expect, but the one that lets your body and mind stay present without shutting down. That means identifying which part feels least frightening to explore first.”
I nod slowly, even though I don’t know where any of those starting points live.
“You mentioned anger,” she says, “and confusion. Before confrontation comes clarity. I’d like you to try naming the exact fear beneath each emotion.
Write them down—not to solve them all at once, but to see them outside of yourself.
Sometimes putting them on the page is the first step toward loosening their hold.
“And when you’re ready to address the people connected to those fears,” she goes on, “you don’t have to meet them face-to-face immediately.
Letters can help you prepare for conversations that feel too large in the moment.
You can write to your mother without sending anything yet.
You can write to your biological father.
As I just mentioned, you can even write to Sam and Lina, not because they’ll read them, but because you need somewhere to put the thoughts that have nowhere else to go. ”
I wipe my palm against my jeans, grounding myself in the movement.
“Another option,” she adds gently, “is practicing the conversations you’re afraid of.
We can role-play them here. You can use this room to say all the things you’ve been silencing for years.
Often the fear isn’t the conversation itself—it’s the anticipation.
Giving yourself a rehearsal can soften that. ”
The idea scares me. But it also feels . . . possible.
“And Mara,” she says, leaning in a little, “you’re not doing this alone.
You have support. You have Alec. You have your friends.
You have me. The next step isn’t about being brave all at once.
It’s about taking one long, deep breath at a time and letting yourself feel something without running from it. ”
“I can do that,” I say feeling less overwhelmed.
“You don’t have to heal perfectly,” she finishes. “You just have to start.”
I breathe slowly, calming myself enough to meet her gaze again.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I can try that.”
This time though, trying doesn’t terrify me. It almost feels like a beginning.