Chapter 32
SOFIA
Missing Jude was a constant ache.
I played the tracks he sent me on a non-stop loop, hunting for a road map through our mess.
No answers materialized.
To add to my uncertainty, when I stepped out of the shelter the morning after he came by to ask me about listening to his music, his Ram was missing from its usual spot across the street.
I shrugged it off.
Until the following morning, at 6 a.m., when I noticed again that he was MIA from his usual vigil outside my work.
His absence unexpectedly rattled me.
I hadn’t realized until now how his silent guard duty had calmed me without me knowing it.
I began to worry.
Was he OK? Was he sick?
As the week passed, it became apparent that without Jude’s presence, my night shifts seemed longer.
I wanted to give in and head to his home to see how he was.
However, I wasn’t ready to deal with our mess, so while it killed me not to go after him, I stuck to my guns.
My fellow night crew workers saved my sanity.
I’d made friends with three women who became my instant lifelines.
Camilla, a Tuscan with zero filter, and Sarah, a half-Kenyan, half-Spanish survivor who had escaped her abusive ex.
Also, Maria, a young mom who ran from a violent drunk husband in Memphis with zero notice and a single diaper bag, spent hours making me laugh with funny stories about her hilarious parenting fails.
We scraped grease stains and hosed oil-coated bays side by side.
During our short coffee breaks, we shared real talk and spilled secrets.
Their battle scars gave me a hard reality check; however, no matter how much I tried, I could not erase Jude from my mind.
My worry for him spiked to a fever pitch one evening when I checked my smartphone during our break and stumbled upon a viral video circulating on social media.
I stared at the small screen, my heart throbbing as I witnessed Jude’s public breakdown in the rain.
It showed his face, eyes hollowed out, his timbre hoarse, his cheeks sunken and slick with the sleet, as he declared he loved me to the world.
The clip, from a week ago, was still trending.
It twisted me up so much that I dialed Maggie’s number for the first time in months.
She picked up on the second ring, her breath catching as I whispered my name.
‘Maggie, its me, Sofia.’
‘Sofia? Girl, I’m so glad you called.’
We exchanged small talk until my impatience broke through.
‘How’s he doing, Maggie?’ I asked.
‘He’s missing you, honey,’ Maggie sighed.
‘I kept seeing him at my new workplace, but I haven’t spotted him in days.’
‘I think he doesn’t want to crowd you. The ball’s in your court however, it’s your decision whether you want to come back or not.’
I leaned my head on the cold wall behind me, tears leaking down my cheeks.
‘I’m OK, but I’ve thought long and hard about why I keep pushing Jude away, Maggie.
The truth is, I can’t survive another catastrophic loss in my life.
I lost my parents when I was nine. I’ve been alone for most of my life, and I’m struggling with risking my heart.
The argument we had broke me, and the terror of being abandoned is paralyzing me. If I trust him again, will he -?’
My voice trailed off.
‘You’re carrying a mountain of unhealed trauma, Sofia, and you don’t have to carry it alone,’ Maggie murmured.
‘Perhaps you need professional therapy to untangle these knots. I’ve got a trusted friend here in Nashville who’s an exceptional licensed counselor.
She’s worked with many migrant women, too.
I’m paying for ten private sessions right now, and you’re going to go. No arguments.’
I closed my eyes, her gentle voice and her firm support cutting through my defensive walls.
‘OK. I’ll go.’
Dr. Renee Restrepo’s downtown Nashville office occupied the third floor of a historic brick building.
It featured exposed cedar beams, a sizable Persian rug that muffled the city noise.
Towering bookshelves packed with thick clinical volumes and miniature clay pottery from South America lined the walls.
A plush velvet armchair in a soothing sage green sat angled toward a wall of arched windows, allowing the soft afternoon sunlight to illuminate the quiet space.
Dr. Restrepo was a striking woman in her early fifties, with silver-streaked dark hair secured in a loose chignon.
She had expressive, honey-colored eyes that radiated a calm empathy.
She wore a tailored charcoal skirt with a vibrant, embroidered Andean jacket.
I focused on the patterns on her sleeve as she sat across from me, her entire focus on me as I opened up to her.
I held nothing back, cataloging my childhood, my life scraping by in Calabria, to the shattered remains of my marriage.
I also shared how the fear of being betrayed, the terror of loss, and emotional numbness made it hard for me to forgive Jude.
I went into my anger from losing my parents and the overwhelming hopelessness that never quite left me, and how it made me question my purpose.
Dr. Restrepo utilized dynamic therapy to help me break down those early childhood experiences.
She shared practical cognitive tools, frameworks, and behavioral models designed to help me recognize my subconscious thought processes.
She also provided tips to navigate my deep-seated fears when my painful memories started to suffocate me.
‘They’ll assist you in dismantling negative cycles before they trigger a full panic response. You’ll come to understand why your adult mind reacts with defensive hostility whenever a threat materializes,’ she explained in her calm, pragmatic voice.
The initial sessions were devastating and draining.
Camilla, who was rapidly becoming a steadfast friend, often met me after my appointments to spirit me away to a tiny hole-in-the-wall trattoria.
We ate the food we missed from home, from crispy panzerotti to fiery fileja pasta with ’nduja and rich, slow-simmered goat ragù.
Her laughter and friendship gave me the relief I needed after the intensity of those hours.
As the weeks passed, I began to heal.
The transformation manifested in quiet victories; I had less to say about the mudslide or the betrayal.
My nightmares vanished.
I wasn’t jumping at sudden noises, and the constant dread about my uncertain future dissolved.
I got to a place where I could relax and welcome genuine happiness into my day.
While agonizing and painful, every single tear I shed during therapy was worth the freedom I found.
I was finally claiming my life back, step by painful step, on my own terms.