Eighteen
Teller
The next two weeks are the hardest of my life.
I found a therapist—Dr. Jemica Chamoy, who specializes in relationship issues and narcissistic behavior. I have my first appointment three days after Susanna comes home.
"Tell me why you're here," Dr. Chamoy says, her pen poised over her notepad.
I tell her everything. The dates I didn't know were dates. The gaslighting. The way I prioritized everyone except my wife.
"And now you want to change," she says when I'm done.
"I have to change. I can't lose her."
"That's not the same as wanting to change for yourself."
"What do you mean?"
"You're here because you're afraid of losing Susanna. That's understandable. But real change has to come from within. You have to want to be a better person, not just a better husband."
"I do want to be better."
"Why?"
The question stumps me. "Because... because I don't like who I've become."
"And who have you become?"
"Someone selfish. Someone who hurts the people he loves without even realizing it."
"Good. That's self-awareness. Now we need to figure out why you became that person and how to make sure you don't become him again."
We spend the next hour digging into my childhood, my relationship with my parents, my need for external validation.
It's brutal. Painful. Necessary.
When I leave, I feel raw and exposed. But also hopeful.
Maybe I can change. Maybe I can become the man Susanna deserves.
At home, Susanna is distant but not hostile. She works from home most days, and we move around each other carefully, like dancers learning new steps.
I make dinner every night. I do the dishes without being asked. I put my phone away when we're in the same room.
I'm trying. God, I'm trying so hard.
But Susanna doesn't soften. She's polite. Cordial. But there's a wall between us that I don't know how to break down.
One night, hear her crying in the bathroom.
"Susanna?" I knock softly. "Can I come in?"
"No."
"Please. Let me help."
"You can't help. You're the reason I'm crying."
The words are like a knife to the chest. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"I know you are. But sorry doesn't make it hurt any less."
I slide down the wall outside the bathroom door, sitting on the floor. "What can I do? Tell me what to do."
"I don't know, Teller. I don't know if there's anything you can do."
"There has to be something."
She's quiet for a long time. Then the door opens, and she's standing there, her face blotchy and tear-stained.
"You can give me time," she says. "You can be patient. You can prove, through your actions, that you've actually changed."
"I will. I am."
"It's been two weeks, Teller. Two weeks of you being on your best behavior. That's not change. That's just you being scared."
"I am scared. I'm terrified of losing you."
"Good. Maybe that fear will keep you from fucking up again."
She walks past me to the bedroom. Our bedroom. The one she's been sleeping in alone while I take the guest room.
"Susanna?"
She pauses.
"I miss you. I miss us."
"I miss us too. But the 'us' I miss doesn't exist anymore. You destroyed it."
"Then let me build something new. Something better."
She looks at me for a long moment. "Maybe. But not yet."
She closes the door.
I sit in the hallway for another hour, my back against the wall, wondering if I'll ever find my way back to her.