Everybody Talks
*
Insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results.
“Robert, I’m so proud of you,” Liz said, her warm smile lighting up her face beneath oversized black-framed glasses.
She wore one of her signature Navajo-print sweaters, a blend of soft earth tones, and the faint scent of sage in the air grounded the room.
Liz always kept her office like this—a calm sanctuary with a stuffed animal basket near the window and inspirational posters on the walls, encouraging clients to heal their inner child.
Every detail reflected her essence, a safe space where Robert and others could find peace.
Robert had been seeing Liz for five years.
He started therapy when his family finally pushed him too far.
They whispered behind our backs at our wedding, placing bets on how far along I was, assuming we’d had a shotgun wedding.
Their cruel remarks and speculation were just one of the reasons we cut ties.
After years of emotional and physical abuse, Robert realized they weren’t worth keeping in his life.
I felt proud of him, too. He had done the hard work—walking away from his toxic family, facing his demons, and committing to therapy week after week.
He’d been left by his dad at three, dragged through the chaos of Lucy’s boyfriends, and finally silenced under the control of Tony, the stepfather who punished him for existing.
When Robert told his mother he wanted to start therapy, her dismissive response cut deep.
I’d heard every version of Lucy’s denial. “It wasn’t that bad,” she’d said, like leaving her children starving and scared wasn’t bad enough.
Those words became the final straw for Robert.
Though the separation initially hurt, he left, and Liz guided him through it.
Her mantras about healing the inner child transformed him from the angry, rebellious skateboarder I’d met at sixteen to the introspective, thoughtful man who now chose hiking and craft beers over lashing out at the world.
Liz had helped him find the path, but Robert had walked it himself.
“Thank you, Liz,” Robert said, his voice steady and sincere. “I wouldn’t have made this progress without your help…and Bree’s support.”
I smiled and reached for his hand. He rubbed his thumb over mine, the warmth of his touch grounding me. Yet tension simmered beneath the surface. Physical closeness always dredged up old fears—memories of manipulation, of intimacy as a weapon for control and pain.
Robert glanced at me before continuing. “Before we wrap up, Brianna wants to ask you something.”
My stomach clenched. Damn it, he’s going to push this.
He had a way of nudging me into situations like this that I wasn’t ready for.
It felt like Robert was holding up a mirror to show me what I didn’t want to see.
He didn’t do it to belittle me—he wanted to help—but his insistence forced me to confront parts of myself I worked hard to avoid.
Liz turned her magnified gaze toward me, her eyes soft but sharp behind her glasses. My heart raced as I realized I had no way out. I had to ask for help—help I didn’t want and didn’t believe I needed.
With a reluctant sigh, I said, “I told Rob I’d start therapy. Can you take me on as a patient?”
I braced for Liz’s motherly affection, expecting her to encourage and welcome me into her care.
Instead, she shook her head. “No.”
Her response felt like a slap. “No?” I repeated, my voice smaller than I intended.
Liz folded her hands, her tone kind but firm. “I’m Robert’s therapist. Because of your shared history, I can’t ethically take you on as a client. And honestly, I’m not the right fit for you.”
The words stung. “Why not?”
Liz’s smile softened, but her voice remained unwavering. “You need someone who will challenge you. I won’t do that. You’d run this room, and you wouldn’t make progress. You need a therapist who can push back when necessary.”
I scoffed. “So, what, I’m a narcissist now?”
Rather than responding, Liz reached into a binder, pulled out a business card, and handed it to me. “Paige Kirkwood. She’s exceptional and specializes in the kind of work you need.”
I stared at the card, the navy-blue font spelling out:
PAIGE KIRKWOOD, L.M.H.C.
Complex PTSD, PTSD, Anxiety, Depression, Childhood Trauma.
I cringed. My name did not belong next to the word “trauma.” That was Robert’s word. Not mine.
“I don’t need a trauma therapist. I’ve listened to Robert work through his stuff. I argue with my mom—that’s my only real issue.”
Liz’s gaze stayed steady. “The fact that you’re dismissing your experiences like that is exactly why you should talk to Paige. Call her on your way out.”
Heat rose in my cheeks. “Did you and Robert plan this?”
Robert met my eyes with concern, his voice soft. “Bree, therapy is for working through conflict. And honestly, you’re part of mine.”
My chest tightened, and tears burned in the corners of my eyes. Before I could respond, Liz’s calm voice cut through. “He’s sharing this because he loves you. He’s not blaming you, Brianna. He wants you to have the same emotional freedom that he’s found. He wants you to feel better.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “At $120 a week?”
Liz stayed composed, her patience unwavering. “This is your choice. But Robert has expressed his feelings, and I’ve seen the support you’ve given him during his journey. Now, he’s offering that same support to you. Let him.”
Her words struck a nerve, and the truth settled deep inside me. Robert wasn’t trying to shame me or change who I was. He wanted me to stop hurting myself and tearing down the walls I built between us. He wanted us to move forward together.
Tears blurred my vision as I looked back at Liz. “What if I can’t get better?”
Liz smiled, her expression gentle but resolute. “You won’t know until you try. But nothing will change if you do nothing.”
The weight of her words settled over me, heavier than I wanted to admit. Maybe I didn’t wish for emotional freedom. Perhaps I just wanted peace. I had to assume that would come from not running anymore.