Chapter 16 #2
I scrunch my lips to the side. “I did some thinking,” I say slowly. “Gotta be honest, it doesn’t feel like I had some great epiphany or anything. I tried being as honest with myself as I could.”
“That’s all I ask for, Dillon. We’ll start off easy, okay? Why did you lash out at Charlie like you did?”
I wince, hiding it behind a light scoff. “Your easy and my easy are not the same.”
Sandra’s expression doesn’t change as she watches me, waiting me out. “We’re on your time, Dillon,” she reminds me quietly.
I suck in a breath, filling my lungs to capacity and then slowly letting it out.
“I wanted…I wanted her to feel small, I suppose. As small as I felt. She showed up with Barrett behind her, and that was the first strike of the match. And then when she told me she’d overheard everything the others said, and asked me about Marisa…
” I close my eyes, the scene playing out like a silent movie behind my lids.
“I could see her slipping through my fingers like water. I closed my fist, but she just kept sliding through.” I open them again.
“I know Charlie, and I knew she was going to leave. She had shut down on me, and I don’t blame her for that…
Not after— The hurt was already there, burning through me, and I just… ”
“Lashed out,” Sandra finishes when I trail off.
I look away, the silence between us stretching out, long and uncomfortable.
I know what she’s doing—letting me sit with everything I just said—but I wish she’d just say whatever comes next because waiting for her to strip away each layer as slowly as possible feels like torture.
“‘Feeling small’,” she echoes my words after another minute. “You’ve used those words before in a previous session.” She taps her notebook, lifting her brows. “Do you remember that?”
“Yes.”
When I don’t expand on it, she reminds me quietly, “You mentioned it when talking about growing up.”
I hesitate. “I thought we were talking about Charlie?”
Sandra tilts her head, eyes locked on mine. “We are, but everything connects. Don’t you think?”
I let out a gusty sigh, dropping my attention to my hands, twisting them in my lap. “I guess.”
“So, give me a little more about that.” A pause. “About your parents.”
I let out a mumbled curse, shifting uncomfortably.
“I didn’t have a bad childhood. My parents loved…
love each other. There wasn’t any abuse or neglect or anything.
” I stop, trying to organize my thoughts.
“It feels like, by talking about this, I’m taking away some of the responsibility for what I did. ”
“You’re not, Dillon. Talking about this doesn’t excuse what you did, and it doesn’t diminish it. It just gives you a starting point for fixing it.” Her eyes gleam with amusement at the look I shoot her.
I’m still dubious, even if it makes a strange kind of sense. “Okay.” I clear my throat, shifting around again, crossing my ankles. Uncrossing them. “When I was eight, I went to a friend’s house for dinner, and the memory of it has always stuck with me. They were… They just—”
“Take your time, Dillon.”
A minute passes.
Another.
My hands tremble in my lap, my mind thrown back into the past and locking in on a moment I hadn’t thought about for years.
Why would I? It was such a small thing, tiny, and it hadn’t mattered.
Not really. Not to my childish mind, which had understood that some things were just normal, even if they didn’t look the same in other houses.
“They were happy,” I whisper. “They had this large kitchen table, and everyone sat around it, talking. Laughing. They asked about each other’s days, and the dad…
He pulled out his wife’s chair. When she finished her drink, he noticed and topped it up.
” I furrow my brow, thinking back. “At one point, he just…reached out and took her hand. He wasn’t—”
“He wasn’t what?” It’s a gentle prompt to continue, quiet and serene, asking without pulling me from the memory. She’s good at that, pulling the words from me without really trying.
“He wasn’t looking at her,” I murmur. “It wasn’t something he thought about. He just reached out and took her hand because he wanted to touch her. Because he could.” I blink, bringing myself back to the therapist’s office.
“And that wasn’t ‘normal’ for you?” Sandra asks. “What did dinner look like in your home?”
I press the palm of my hand to my sternum, rubbing the ache that’s lingering there at the thought of my normal.
“My dad cuts people with his words faster than he can cut his steak.” A humorless noise escapes me, but Sandra doesn’t react.
“Not people, though. Not really. Just my mom. He didn’t have to raise his voice half the time, just ripping her apart for over-seasoning the meat.
Or the way she dressed that day. Or for something his friends said. ”
“What would your mother do in response?”
“She would smile,” I say softly. “And she would laugh. Mom acted like nothing was wrong, as if he wasn’t leveling her with every word, every breath. She was good at pretending.”
“What were you doing?” Sandra asks.
I don’t answer straight away, really thinking about the question, looking back into memories I don’t like to dwell on. “I tried to smooth things over at first. I would tell Mom how much I liked what she cooked or that her hair was real pretty that day. He…Dad didn’t like that.”
“What didn’t he like?” she prods softly.
“Uh, well…There was one dinner that sticks out, only because Mom was trying to make it special. I don’t remember why, but she spent all afternoon in the kitchen.
I asked her to come play with me at one point, and she…
” My eyes fly around the room, not really seeing anything except that old kitchen and my mom’s face, tired and drawn with stress.
“She was a good mom. Always patient, but that day, she snapped that she just needed me to leave her be.”
Sandra makes a soft humming noise, not interrupting.
“Dad…I could see that my mom was worried when we all sat down. Her hands were shaking when she put the plates on the table, but he just…Dad took one look at it and scoffed. He said, ‘Why did I bother coming home? I could’ve eaten something this dry at the office.’ Mom’s face went white, her eyes so big that they took up almost half her face.
She just…She withered. She shrank into herself, as if making herself smaller would mean he would leave her alone.
I remember thinking that I just wanted to see her smile, to make things better.
So I took a bite of peas—I hate peas—and told her they were delicious. ”
“What happened next, Dillon?”
I blink Sandra back into my focus, my expression dull. “Dad turned on me, his face red and angry. He shouted at me, told me I was stupid, that there was something wrong with me, and that I better shut my mouth if I knew what was good for me.”
Sandra’s pen glides across the tablet screen. I force myself to look away, not wanting to dwell on what she might be writing.
“I learned from that,” I continue, “to keep quiet. I didn’t want him to turn his anger on me, even if it meant leaving her defenseless. And it wasn’t as if she defended me, either.”
“What did you do instead?”
“I told jokes. Bad ones. I went out of my way to make my mom’s smile real.” I shrug. It doesn’t matter. “When Dad was around, when he was angry, I hid. Playing my own game of pretend, just like Mom did.”
Sandra’s watching me assessingly, and it feels like a thousand insects crawling over every inch of skin. “So, you learned early on that speaking up had the potential to make things worse, for you and for your mother. That it was safer to stay quiet.”
“I guess. He wasn’t abusive,” I tell her, sounding more confident than I feel. “He was just…” I trail off, because how do you describe a man so negative and unhappy that he has to drag everyone around him down, his primary target being the woman he claims to love?
And isn’t that exactly what I’ve done to the woman I love?
“What just happened?” Sandra asks.
I jerk my head up. “What?”
“You were thinking something. What was it?” Her smile is small and encouraging.
“I…” I dig my fingers into my knees, trying to center myself.
“I was thinking that I did the same thing to Charlie. I had all these feelings when she walked in that morning, and I didn’t know what to do with them.
All I knew was that Barrett was there and she was leaving. So I just…I dumped it all on her.”
“Because you learned two lessons from your parents. That it’s safer to pretend, smile away the pain, and that it’s easier to strike out at someone than admit that something’s wrong.”
My shoulders sag under the weight of that, but Sandra’s not done.
“You were trying to control Charlie, use her insecurities against her in the hopes that she would concede and stay.” Her voice is gentle but firm. “And control might feel safe, but that isn’t love, is it?”
I shrug listlessly. “I do love her, though. It just…All I could see was that look on her face, and it felt like I wasn’t enough, especially if she could walk away so easily.”
Sandra settles back in her seat, looking proud.
“You’ve made some real progress here in the last few weeks, Dillon.
A lifetime of lessons won’t disappear after a few therapy sessions, I’m afraid.
You need to put real work into changing your mindset, avoiding those triggers, and learning how to communicate in a healthy way.
” She pauses, letting it all sink in, before adding, “Love makes us vulnerable. It leaves us feeling powerless and out of control, and that is terrifying. But it’s worth it.
” I nod my head, even when what she’s saying feels impossible.
“How do I relearn those lessons?”
“By doing what you’re doing now—naming your feelings, facing the obstacles.
” Sandra watches me carefully. “We know what triggered you this time. Next time, it will be about recognizing that storm—stopping and really thinking about the words coming from your mouth. It’ll be about asking yourself: what am I trying to achieve right now?
Am I acting out of control and fear? Or love?
” She pauses for a second, eyes never wavering from my face.
“You’ll be able to ask yourself,” she says, voice too soft, too knowing, “if you’re trying to make someone else feel small just so you don’t have to feel that way. ”
I clench my fists, looking away, hating that everything she’s saying rings true, each word landing like a blow.
“What about Charlie?” I ask, voice tinged with desperation. “How do I get her to forgive me for this?”
She lets out a soft sigh. “It’s not about getting her to do anything, Dillon.
First, you need to forgive yourself for the child you were.
Realize that it wasn’t your job to protect your mother or to stop your father.
And then, forgive yourself for the actions you took as a man.
Maybe then, you’ll be able to show Charlie the changes you’re making.
” She smiles. “But these changes aren’t for her. ”
“Who else would it be for?”
Sandra’s expression doesn’t change. “Yourself, Dillon. It’s about breaking the cycle and showing yourself the man you can be.”