The Break Bliss
*
And surely you’ll buy your pint cup! And surely I’ll buy mine! And we’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.
“I still can’t believe your mom gave you baby clothes for Christmas,” Robert said, sipping his ale as his fingers casually scrolled through a web page on his phone.
I let out a sharp laugh, shaking my head. “What can I say? She’s completely insane.”
The image of the tiny onesies swam in my mind, absurdly colorful with cartoon animals that mocked me from their gift box.
A gift meant for a baby that didn’t exist. It was peak Martha—her way of reminding me of the life I was supposed to have by now, the perfect timeline she’d constructed for me in her head.
“She probably meant it as a joke,” Robert said, smirking. “Right?”
“Not a chance,” I replied, setting my beer on the coffee table. “She’s not clever enough for that kind of humor. This gift was a message. Like everything else she does.”
The space around us felt stifling, and the living room was dim and cluttered.
A blanket slumped over the back of the couch, abandoned coffee mugs were stacked on coasters, and a half-dead plant sat on the windowsill.
The mess mirrored my mental state—overwhelmed and chaotic yet too paralyzed to tackle it.
Even the air seemed heavy, laced with the scent of stale beer and pine from the browning Christmas tree in the corner.
Robert’s sigh broke my train of thought. “You need to tell them we’re moving. The longer you wait, the worse it’ll get.”
I shot him a glare and slammed my beer bottle onto the table. “Fuck my family,” I snapped. “I don’t care if it’s hard for them. We’re starting over, and they can keep living in their household of chaos.”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Sure, have it your way. But I know you. The second you tell your mom, you’ll drown in guilt and sadness, and she’ll smother you with her twisted version of kindness.
Then you’ll forget all the awful things Martha does—until she sneaks in a jab about your weight or your hair. ”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t argue. Robert was right. Martha always found a way to claw back in, guilt wrapping around me like a noose. She always reeled me back, no matter how far I tried to run.
Twisting a lock of my hair between my fingers, I tried to shift the subject. “Yeah, my mom is already pissed about how dark my hair’s gotten. I half-expected her to pull out bleach at Christmas dinner and insist I turn it blonde again.”
Robert snorted, leaning back against the couch.
He’d heard the story a hundred times—how my mom insisted on giving me “highlights” in high school and accidentally bleached my whole head platinum blonde.
She’d declared me her blonde daughter, parading me around like a doll while my sisters took their designated roles: the redhead and the brunette.
Robert shifted closer, his arm sliding around my shoulders. I stiffened momentarily but forced myself to relax, leaning into his warmth. This interaction was every day. This was love. This relationship was what I had always wanted. So, why did it feel like I was suffocating?
His lips brushed the top of my head. “I love your hair,” he murmured. “Your lion’s mane, that wild, two-toned thing you’ve got going on.”
He ran his fingers through the strands, gently massaging my scalp. Part of me melted into the sensation, but another part screamed for him to stop. My skin prickled as though the touch was a foreign invasion, something I hadn’t invited but couldn’t entirely reject.
His lips trailed to my jawline, peppering soft kisses along my skin. “Your freckles,” he whispered. His mouth brushed lower. “Your neck.”
My stomach flipped as alarms blared in my head. I loved how his affection made me feel worshipped, but the noise in my mind drowned it out: You’ll have to get naked. He’ll see your Christmas belly. You’ll have to feel sexy.
I jerked away before I could stop myself, curling into the corner of the couch. “Stop.”
My heart raced between the thrill of closeness and the screaming I couldn’t quiet. Robert blinked, his confusion evident. He backed up, his eyes softening at my shaking. “What?”
Wrapping the blanket around me like armor, I scowled. “I don’t want to have sex.”
He raised his hands, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “I was just kissing you.”
I shook my head, frustration bubbling up. “No, because when you’re sweet and affectionate, it always leads to sex. I don’t want that tonight.”
He frowned, his expression softening but still tinged with confusion. “Bree, I wasn’t trying to sleep with you. I was just being nice.”
I stared at him, guilt and irritation warring in my chest. “You know what’s nice? Getting me another beer.”
I wiggled my empty bottle at him, and he sighed, heading to the kitchen. As soon as he disappeared, I exhaled, sinking deeper into the couch. This was how it always ended—with me retreating, him retreating further. Love felt like a game of chicken, and I never let myself lose.
Robert returned with two bottles, handing me one as he settled beside me. I took it, clutching the cold glass to my chest and focusing on its heft. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
“I know you are,” he replied, his voice gentle but weary. “But I think you need therapy.”
His tone was kind. That didn’t stop it from feeling like a gut punch. My eyes started to sting with tears as I blurted out, “That’s a fucked-up thing to say.”
He chuckled softly. “It’s not. You’ve got intimacy issues, you’re lashing out at work, and you won’t tell your family about the move. You need help to work through it.”
I stared at him, anger simmering beneath the surface, but I couldn’t deny he was right. I took a long swig of beer to drown the argument forming in my throat. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” he said, leaning back against the couch. “If you start now, you might have some tools before we move.”
I wanted to scoff, roll my eyes, or wave him off, but instead, I nodded. Therapy was another item on the long list of obligations I didn’t want to face.
I was not the kind of person who needed therapy. I had a complicated relationship with my mother. It wasn’t as if I was abused or had a mental health issue. People like me didn’t go to therapy; they carried on and endured. And drank. And lashed out. And flinched at kindness.
I knew how it would go—I’d pour out my story, let someone dissect it, and leave with the same answers I already knew. All my problems stemmed from one person.
Martha had built me this way. Her constant need to control, to shape me into her ideal daughter, left scars I couldn’t erase. Therapy would mean pulling them open again, bleeding them out in front of a stranger.
I took another sip of beer and sighed. 2015 was rung in with resolutions I hadn’t asked for. Martha gave me baby clothes, and Robert gave me therapy. Both felt like accusations.
However, at least Robert’s was something I’d consider. The curtain might rise on therapy, or it might not. Either way, the show must go on.