Chapter 6 #2
“Life in prison. No parole. He’s still there, as far as I know.
Andrew and I went into foster care. We were fortunate to have a good family who eventually adopted us, but the damage was already done.
” I wipe my eyes, feeling hollow, but strangely relieved.
“I’ve spent my entire adult life convinced that I was a coward.
That I should have done something to save her.
Seven years old, and I thought it was my fault she died. ”
Bruce sets down his notepad and looks at me directly. “Gray, I want you to listen to me very carefully. You were a child. A seven-year-old boy cannot overpower a grown man. If you had tried to intervene, you would very likely have been killed too. Andrew saved your life by keeping you hidden.”
“But she was my mom—” I argue,
“And she loved you enough to draw Richard’s violence toward herself and away from you and Andrew.
She protected you the only way she could, and Andrew continued that protection by keeping you safe in that closet.
Your survival was not cowardice. It was the result of two people who loved you more than their own lives. ” His voice is firm but compassionate.
The words hit me over the head, but instead of pain, I find a sense of relief. The weight I’ve carried begins to lift enough for me to fully breathe.
“Your mother’s death wasn’t your fault, Gray. Richard’s violence was not your fault. And the trauma you’ve been trying to numb with alcohol and drugs for years isn’t your fault either. But your healing? That is your responsibility.”
“I don’t know how to heal from this.” I’m ill-equipped to deal with my own bullshit.
“The same way you’re doing it now—one day at a time, one honest conversation at a time, and one choice to feel the pain instead of running from it. Tell me, when did you start drinking?” Bruce picks up his notepad again.
“Fourteen. I found a bottle of whiskey in our adoptive dad’s liquor cabinet and drank half of it. I felt like I could breathe for the first time since my mom died.” I’ve never told another soul how relieving my first drink was at the precocious age of fourteen.
“And how did it make you feel about the night your mom died?” He digs deeper.
“Like it didn’t matter anymore. Like I could forget it ever happened.
Obviously, that didn’t work out long-term because I’m here in a rehab facility, talking to you.
I’ve never told another soul what happened that night, even when the cops asked us a million questions.
Andrew fielded them all, saving me from being further traumatized at such a young age. ”
“Trauma doesn’t go away just because we ignore it. It burrows deeper, influencing our choices and shaping our relationships. Do you see the connection between your fear of losing Rhea and your tendency to push away people who love you?” he asks.
The pieces click together with clarity. “I was so afraid of losing her the way I lost Mom that I pushed her away before she could leave. Or die.”
“Self-sabotage as self-protection. It’s incredibly common in trauma survivors.
But what I want you to understand is that Rhea left because of your choices, not because you’re fundamentally unlovable or destined to lose everyone you care about.
You have control over your choices, Gray.
You always have.” He writes more details on his pad of paper.
“What if it’s too late to get her back?” My mind goes straight to the worst possible scenario to prepare for the blow before the blade drops, anticipating the hurt before it can settle like a lead weight in my belly.
He closes the brown leather folio. “If you can get sober and stay sober, if you can heal from this trauma and become the man you’re capable of being, then you’ll have honored both your mother’s sacrifice and Rhea’s love. Even if they can’t be with you anymore.”
* * *
Returning to the present in the dining hall, I finish telling my roommates about the session. They listen without judgment, offering the kind of support that can only come from people who’ve done their own excavation of buried pain.
“Are you going to be okay?” Denny asks as we clear our trays.
“I think so. Better than okay, maybe. For the first time in my life, I feel like I understand why I am the way I am. Doesn’t excuse it, but…”
“But it makes it all make sense,” Randy finishes.
Later in the evening, after the last group session ends, the nightly wind-down routine I’ve come to expect marks the end of another day of recovery.
I lie in my bed and think about my mother, not the way she died, but the way she lived.
I can still hear her laugh, taste her cooking, and feel the same warm safety I did back then, but especially when she used to sing me to sleep with old country songs.
She loved me enough to die protecting me.
The least I can do is live in a way that honors that love.
Tomorrow, I’ll call Rhea again and leave another message that she probably won’t listen to. But tonight, for the first time since I was seven years old, I feel like the man my mother raised me to be might actually be worth saving.