Chapter 8
I called her.
It happened at Quinn’s house, an hour later. She’d already left, catching a ride to the place she’s interning at and yes, apparently therapists have to intern too. I’d been half-heartedly scrolling through my phone, not even reading anything, just moving my thumb for the sake of it.
I was just gonna input the number but without thinking, I tapped the contact. It rang. A receptionist picked up. I was fully prepared to hang up or say I dialled the wrong number. But I didn’t.
They had an opening. An “emergent slot,” the woman said. I guess therapists keep those handy, which makes sense. If anyone needs a backup slot, it’s people who listen to other people all day long.
They offer couples counselling, too. But I wasn’t ready for that. I needed to figure out what I wanted first. So I made an individual appointment.
Claudia, the head therapist, was out of town, so I got a Dr. Carl Brett. Definitely a man. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. I still don’t.
Right now I’m sitting in a small waiting room outside his office.
The walls are painted that specific shade of neutral meant to be calming, something between oatmeal and putty and there’s soft instrumental music playing from a speaker I can’t see.
A man walks out of the office, probably in his forties, looking slightly dazed.
He nods politely at me before heading out.
Then the door opens again, and a new man steps into the waiting area.
He looks... about my age. Which somehow does not help. I don’t know why I expected him to be older. Wiser. Gray-haired, maybe, with glasses and elbow patches. But this guy? He could have easily been someone at a friend’s dinner party or a neighbour who helped move a couch.
“Kate?” he asks.
I nod and jump to my feet like I’ve been caught somewhere I shouldn’t be. He gestures me in, and I follow him into the office.
The room is warm. Not just temperature-wise.
The lighting is soft. There’s no desk. Just two armchairs, a small round table with tissues on it, and a brown couch.
I sit on the couch because it looks softer.
I’m right. It’s so cozy it makes me want to melt straight into it and maybe nap until October.
Dr. Brett settles into one of the armchairs across from me. He doesn’t have a notebook, just a calm, open expression and a slight lean forward, like he’s genuinely paying attention.
“Thanks for coming in today,” he says. His voice is low and even. “You’re here for an individual session. First time in therapy, right?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Alright. Before we get into anything heavy, I just want to say, this is your space. You don’t have to say anything you’re not ready to. We’ll go at your pace.”
I nod again, but my throat’s tight. There’s a lot I want to say. And none of it feels like it makes sense yet.
“Why don’t we start with what brought you in?” he offers. “There’s no wrong way to begin.”
I swallow hard. “I found out my husband cheated on me.”
He doesn’t flinch or blink or even shift. “Okay. That’s a lot. When did you find out?”
“Our anniversary celebration last night. Ten years.” My voice sounds thin, like it’s been strained through a sieve.
Dr. Brett gives a small nod. “That timing… I imagine that made it even more painful.”
I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah. We were about to take pictures. I was walking out of the restroom feeling all happy and content, then his college roommate, a douche asshole that never liked me, made… this comment and it just stuck.”
He waits, doesn’t rush me.
“I asked Aiden about it later. Confronted him when we were alone. He lied. Of course he did. Looked me straight in the eye and told me it was a lie. But it’s not the first time someone has lied to my face so I.. I told him I already knew.”
Dr. Brett raises an eyebrow slightly. “You didn’t?”
“No. I just bluffed. I wanted to see what he’d say if he thought the game was already over. And he cracked. Told me everything.”
I pause to breathe. The couch seems to shift beneath me, soft and traitorous.
“He slept with someone at his bachelor party,” I finish, voice low.
Silence stretches between us, but it isn’t empty. It gives me room.
“Have you had time to process how you feel about it?” he asks.
I shrug. “No. Not really. I keep... bouncing between anger and numbness. I’m not crying all the time or anything, it’s not like that.
But my thoughts won’t settle. It’s like they’re running laps in my head without resting.
Sometimes I think… okay, it was a long time ago, maybe I should forgive him. For the kids. For the life we built.”
Dr. Brett nods gently. “And other times?”
“I want to bash his head in for lying to me for so long.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just sits with it. Just like he’s supposed to.
“That’s understandable,” he says. “You’re holding two truths at once. You love him. You hate what he did. You want to protect your family. You also want justice. Those can coexist. You’re allowed to feel all of it.”
I sit with that. Let it land, even though it hurts. Even though it feels like peeling off a layer of skin just to sit here and talk.
“I think what hurts most,” I say slowly, “is not just that he cheated. It’s that he let me worship him. Let me make excuses for him. Let me build him into something... something golden. Knowing the whole time he didn’t deserve it. And he just... let me keep going.”
Dr. Brett shifts slightly. His voice is soft, curious, but never prying. “How did you worship him?”
I take a breath, staring down at my hands. “I never made him help me. Never even asked for it. Heck, even when he half-heartedly offered, I said no.” A pause. “I let him get away with a lot. Not cheating. But things that chipped away at me slowly.”
He nods, waiting.
“I was always understanding when he cancelled dinner plans, even when I had gotten dressed up. I didn’t yell when he went to the gym after work instead of coming home to help with the kids.
I didn’t make a big deal when, for our tenth anniversary, instead of the quiet, cozy dinner I wanted, something just for us, he threw a party.
A party with more people than we had at our actual wedding. ”
My voice shakes a little, but I keep going. “I told myself he was tired. That he deserved to blow off steam. That I didn’t want to be the nagging wife. So I swallowed it. Over and over, until I stopped noticing I was doing it.”
Dr. Brett leans in just slightly, his expression kind. “And why do you think you did that?”
I blink down at my hands, then back up at him. “I got pregnant at eighteen. I was terrified. I gave him an out, told him he didn’t have to stay, that I’d figure it out somehow. But he stayed. He chose to stay.”
I pause, remembering how big Aiden had seemed back then. How solid.
“And because of that, I felt like I owed him something. Like I had to be grateful forever. He stayed when others wouldn’t have. He married me. He built a life. I thought, this is what love is. Sacrifice. Duty. Doing the hard thing.”
Dr. Brett tilts his head. “So you worshipped him because he stayed.”
I nod. “Yeah. I told myself over and over, he was good. He was kind. He didn’t run. He could’ve had a different life, but he chose me. I repeated that line so often it started sounding holy.”
“And now?”
“Now he’s not that man anymore,” I say. “Or maybe he never was.”
Dr. Brett gives me a moment, then asks, “How has his cheating changed that? He’s still the man who stayed.”
“That’s what I keep thinking,” I say. “He’s still the same guy, technically.
Still the father of my kids. Still brings home dinner when I’m too tired to cook.
But before… before he was this perfect man in my mind.
He loved me. He loved the boys. He worked hard for us, provided when I couldn’t. He was everything. And now…”
I shake my head, throat tight.
“Now he’s flawed,” I whisper. “I can’t stop seeing those flaws. They won’t blur like they used to.”
Dr. Brett folds his hands in his lap. “Maybe what changed isn’t just your view of him. Maybe it’s your view of yourself. You’re allowed to expect more now.”
I look up, surprised.
Dr. Brett continues slowly, “Before he was an image. A mirage you created. And now, he’s real. Human.”
“Yes,” I say, voice catching. “Exactly. And I don’t want the mirage anymore. But I’m also not happy with the scraps.”
Dr. Brett raises an eyebrow gently. “Scraps?”
I lean back into the couch suddenly feeling exhausted. “Yeah. Scraps. The time he gave us, me, the boys, after work, after the gym, after grabbing drinks with his friends. The leftovers. That’s what I got.”
I shake my head, trying not to feel stupid saying it out loud.
“I let him,” I admit. “That’s the worst part.
I let him push me to the side. He’d invite other people to dinners that were supposed to be just us.
He almost missed the birth of our first child because he turned his phone off.
Can you believe that? He said he was in class.
I was nineteen, in labour, and calling and calling and nothing. ”
Dr. Brett doesn’t say anything. He just lets it hang there, waiting for me. Doesn’t rush in to fix it or make it prettier.
I keep going because if I stop, I’ll cry.
“You wanna know what he got me for Mother’s Day last year?
” I don’t expect an answer, “he sent me to spend the day with his mom and mine. His mother hates me. Always has. And mine? Mine barely treated me like a daughter. But Aiden thought it was sweet. ‘Girl time,’ he called it. Like I was some character in a sitcom. He never asked how it made me feel. He just... assumed I’d suck it up. And I did.”
I draw a breath. It’s hard to breathe when the truth feels like smoke in your throat.
“Even our ten-year anniversary,” I whisper. “I wanted something small. Just us. I told him I wanted to go away, just the two of us, somewhere quiet. An island. Our first real vacation together after our honeymoon.”
I laugh under my breath, the bitter kind that tastes more like regret than humour. “He wouldn’t even think about it. So, I just bought the tickets, told him they were non-refundable. I had to strong-arm my own husband into going on vacation with me.”
I glance up, then back down again. The memory stings.
“He wanted the party, he wanted it big. Flashy. Rented out a venue, invited everyone we knew. Said ten years deserved a celebration. And maybe he was right, maybe that’s what people do.
But I had to fight to get him to commit to one week alone with me in Bora Bora.
I practically had to guilt him into it.”
Dr. Brett watches me carefully, not judging, not leading. Just holding space.
“And now?” he asks softly.
“Now he’s in a hotel somewhere,” I say, voice tightening. “And I’m hiding out in my best friend’s house because I don’t want my kids to know. And I don’t want to lie to them either. I don’t even know what to say yet.”
I blink quickly, eyes hot but dry. I’m too tired to cry.
Dr. Brett speaks gently. “It sounds like for a long time, you made space for everyone else’s comfort, his, your kids’, your families’ but not your own.”
I look down at my hands. “I didn’t know I was allowed to have any.”
He nods. “You are. You’ve always been allowed. You just weren’t told.”
I don’t know what’s next. I don’t know if I’ll stay or go, forgive or walk away. But I had no idea I needed someone to say it, to tell me I was allowed to want more, to expect more. To demand it, even.
It hits me then, not like a crash but like the slow, aching swell of something rising in my chest. I’ve been waiting for permission all this time. From Aiden. From life. From the version of myself that learned to be grateful for scraps.
Dr. Brett’s voice is warm but firm. “Kate, I’m afraid we’re out of time for today. But I’d really encourage you to come back. I think we’ve barely scratched the surface. You’ve been carrying a lot. You deserve the space to work through it.”
I nod quickly. “I’d like to make another appointment.”
He gives me a soft smile, one that doesn’t try to cheer me up but feels genuine. “I’m glad to hear that. And if you’re open to it, I want to suggest something else.”
I shift slightly on the couch, unsure. “Okay.”
“If there’s any part of you considering couples therapy down the road, even if it’s just to get some clarity on the relationship or closure,” Dr. Brett says, “I’d recommend your husband see someone individually as well.
Therapy only works when both people are doing the internal work.
And from what I’ve heard today, it sounds like you both became adults quite young.
In order for any relationship to work, the partners have to understand their own needs before they can even hope to fulfil someone else’s.
I can recommend someone to him if you want,” he continues.
“Or he can see one of our in-house therapists. We offer both couples and individual sessions. Sometimes it helps to have a team who can coordinate, but it’s totally your choice. ”
I take a breath, feeling my ribs expand and ache all at once.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. “I don’t even know if he’d go.”
“Then let that be his decision,” Dr. Brett says gently. “You’ve already started the hard part, you showed up. Let him decide if he’s ready to do the same.”
I nod again, slower this time.
And as I stand and gather my things, I feel… not better, exactly. But less alone in the mess. A little more upright. A little more real.