Chapter 3
By the time Rachel pulled into the parking lot outside Dr. Liz Cohen’s office, she’d already had an entire argument with herself.
Not about therapy itself. Two years in, she’d become one of those people who recommended therapy with the evangelical enthusiasm of someone who had discovered a life-changing air fryer. She believed in therapy. She believed in Liz.
No, the argument had been about whether she was making too much of lunch with Grace.
Which, if she was being honest, was usually how these things went.
Nothing arrived in its original form anymore.
By the time a feeling reached conscious thought, Rachel had already explained it, minimized it, contextualized it, and apologized for it at least twice.
It was exhausting.
There was that word again.
Ben’s word.
Well.
Apparently Ben’s and Liz’s.
Which, again, seemed unfair.
Liz’s office occupied the second floor of a converted Victorian near downtown. After two years, Rachel knew exactly which floorboard creaked near the receptionist’s desk and that Liz always kept peppermint tea in the cabinet behind her bookshelves.
She knew this because she’d cried in this room often enough to know where the tissues lived. Which felt like a strange form of intimacy.
“You’re smiling,” Liz observed as Rachel settled into the chair.
Rachel laughed.
“I was just thinking you’ve listened to me talk and cry for going on two years. There should probably be some sort of loyalty program.”
Liz smiled.
“I’ll speak to management.”
“I appreciate that.”
Rachel settled back into the chair and crossed one leg beneath her.
The room itself always irritated her slightly because it was so comfortable. Not aggressively comforting. There were no inspirational signs reminding her to breathe and no tiny tabletop fountains making noises that suggested enlightenment.
Just bookshelves and plants and soft afternoon light and chairs that somehow managed to flatter everyone.
The woman was a wizard.
“I had lunch with Grace yesterday.”
Liz nodded.
“How was it?”
“Lovely.”
And it had been.
That was the frustrating part.
Grace had arrived twenty minutes late and immediately stolen fries from Rachel’s plate while announcing that organic chemistry was ruining her life.
There had been a ten-minute discussion about a roommate who was apparently making questionable romantic decisions, though Rachel privately noted that twenty-year-olds had been making questionable romantic decisions since the beginning of civilization.
And God, she loved her daughter.
She loved the woman Grace was becoming.
Loved that she was funny and thoughtful and compassionate. Loved that she cared deeply about things. Loved that she still called when she needed recipes and still occasionally stole fries despite being twenty years old and perfectly capable of ordering her own.
The lunch had been lovely.
Which was why Rachel had spent half the drive home wondering why she’d cried afterward.
“There was just this moment,” she said.
Liz nodded.
“And I know she’s twenty.”
Silence.
“And I know she’s busy.”
Another nod.
“And I know this is exactly what I wanted.”
Liz smiled.
Rachel stopped.
Then laughed.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“What?”
“I’m doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Presenting my opening arguments.”
Liz smiled.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Rachel groaned. “You absolutely do. I haven’t even gotten to the point yet and I’ve already defended her six times.”
“A rough estimate.”
“God.”
She sank farther into the chair.
“There was just this tiny moment during lunch. We were talking about roommates and classes and some boy who sounds deeply mediocre, and I realized she’d spent an hour telling me about her life and never once asked how I was.”
The words sounded childish once they were out in the room.
Which was ridiculous.
Grace wasn’t six.
She wasn’t sixteen.
She was twenty years old, living her own life, which was exactly what Rachel had raised her to do.
Children were supposed to grow up. That was the whole point. Nobody ever prepared mothers for what happened when they succeeded.
Liz sat quietly.
And because she sat quietly, Rachel found herself continuing.
“It would’ve been nice.”
Her voice softened.
“Just once.”
The tears surprised her. Not because she never cried in therapy anymore. Two years with Liz had cured her of the need to appear composed. But because the sadness itself felt so small. And somehow the small things were always the hardest to explain.
“I don’t want her worrying about me.”
“No.”
“I don’t want her taking care of me.”
“No.”
“I just…” Rachel smiled helplessly. “It would’ve been nice if she’d asked.”
Liz nodded.
“Yes.”
Rachel blinked.
“That’s it?”
“What were you hoping for?”
“I don’t know.”
“A lecture?”
“Maybe.”
Liz laughed softly.
“No lecture.”
And somehow that simple answer made Rachel cry harder.
Which was embarrassing, although after two years together, Rachel suspected Liz had heard far stranger things than a woman admitting she wished her daughter had asked how she was.
After a moment, Rachel smiled through tears.
“You know what nobody tells you?”
“Hm?”
“Nobody tells you that one of the strange little griefs of motherhood is becoming less necessary.”
Liz nodded.
“And how do you feel about that?”
“Depends on the day.”
She smiled.
“Some days I feel proud.”
And she did.
She felt proud watching Grace become independent and Ethan become the kind of young man who called his grandmother just because he knew she’d like it.
She felt proud that her children knew how to cook and do laundry and navigate airports and ask questions and apologize when they were wrong.
She felt proud that they were building lives that no longer revolved around her.
And then there were other days.
Days when the house felt too quiet. Days when she caught herself buying Ethan’s favorite cereal before remembering he hadn’t lived at home in over a year. Days when she reached for her phone because something funny had happened and remembered that children didn’t report to their mothers anymore.
Which was healthy.
Wonderful.
And occasionally heartbreaking.
She smiled sadly.
“I think mothers should get trophies.”
Liz laughed.
“For what?”
“For pretending we’re completely fine.”
“Ah.”
“Or Oscars.”
“Very prestigious.”
“I think so.”
Liz smiled.
“You miss them.”
Rachel nodded.
“Terribly.”
“And?”
Rachel sighed.
“And I feel guilty for missing them.”
Liz smiled softly. “There you are.”
Rachel groaned. “I know.”
“No, really.” Liz settled back in her chair. “You never seem to get just one feeling.”
Rachel laughed.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you miss your children and immediately start explaining why you shouldn’t.”
“Well, they’re supposed to leave.”
“They are.”
“And I did my job.”
“You did.”
“And I’m lucky.”
Liz smiled. “I know.”
Rachel laughed. “See? You hear it too.”
“I do.”
“And it’s annoying.”
“No.” Liz shook her head. “I don’t think it’s annoying.”
“What then?”
“I think you’ve spent a lot of years making sure nobody mistakes love for ingratitude.”
Rachel grew quiet.
Because that felt uncomfortably close to something true.
The thought lived so close to the surface now she barely had to speak it.
She simply sat with it.
Because Robert was a good man.
Even now, eighteen months after the divorce, saying otherwise felt impossible.
There had been no betrayal.
No terrible secret.
No dramatic ending.
Just two decades of birthdays and soccer games and family vacations and ordinary affection.
The sort of marriage people admired. The sort of marriage that made her question herself. Because how did you explain walking away from a perfectly decent life? How did you explain wanting more when there was nothing obviously wrong?
For years she’d wondered whether the problem had been her. Whether gratitude should have been enough. Whether loneliness was simply adulthood and everyone else had somehow accepted that fact with more grace than she had.
“We had a good life,” she said quietly.
Liz nodded.
“Yes.”
“And I still wanted more.”
Liz waited.
Rachel smiled weakly.
“God, that sounds awful.”
“It sounds honest.”
“But selfish.”
“Does it?”
Rachel laughed softly. “I knew you were going to say that.”
“I know.”
She wiped her eyes.
“The worst part is that I don’t know how to explain it to Grace.”
Liz said nothing.
“I don’t know how to tell my daughter that I loved her father and still love the life we built and that none of it was fake.”
She looked toward the window.
“I just got lonely.”
Her voice trembled.
“So lonely.”
Not every day.
That was what people never understood.
It wasn’t constant misery.
There had been movie nights and vacations and inside jokes and Christmas mornings and ordinary happiness. And somewhere inside all that happiness, she’d slowly disappeared. Which sounded dramatic. Except it hadn’t felt dramatic. It had felt quiet.
Liz waited.
And because she waited, Rachel eventually laughed softly.
“There I go again.”
“Hm?”
“Trying to make sure I sound reasonable.”
Liz smiled.
“You work very hard to prove you’re grateful.”
Rachel laughed automatically. But the sound faded. Because she did. Good Lord, she did. She could hear herself now.
I know I’m lucky.
I know Robert’s a good man.
I know other people have it worse.
I know.
I know.
I know.
As though gratitude were some sort of password she had to provide before anyone allowed her to want anything else.
She leaned back slowly.
“Oh.”
Liz nodded.
“When you talk about sadness, it seems like you feel the need to explain it.”
Rachel smiled faintly.
“And when I talk about happiness?”
“You explain that too.”
The room grew quiet.
And suddenly Rachel saw it. All of it. The endless qualifications. The defenses. The disclaimers. She’d spent years defending her unhappiness.
Apparently she’d been defending her happiness too.
As though joy itself required supporting evidence.