Therapy
“You’re late,” Dad’s voice rang with a mixture of warmth and gentle impatience from the kitchen as I finally pushed the door open.
“I know,” I managed a strained smile, dropping my backpack onto the sofa and kicking off my shoes, feeling that heavy guilt settle in my chest.
“Oh Charlie, finally! Nice of you to grace us with your presence for an early dinner. I promise I won’t talk your ear off,” Dad teased, his tone light but tinged with affection.
“Did you cook?” I asked, aromas of Italian herbs and spices teasing my senses from the kitchen, bringing a flicker of hope and comfort.
“No, I figured pizza was easiest. I ordered Tony’s—hope you don’t mind, Charlie, it’s got pepperoni.”
“Not at all, Mr. Jacobs,” Charlie responded, carefully placing her bag beside her shoes by the door, her eyes glinting with anticipation.
“You’ll love it. It’s one of my favorites, and the cheese-stuffed crust? Absolutely divine,” I rambled excitedly, grabbing sodas from the fridge as a small distraction.
“Come on, everyone, take a seat. We’re not fancy,” Dad said warmly as he set two boxes of pizza in the middle of the table.
How I needed this—these simple moments, the chance to be together. I asked, voice tentative but craving connection, “How was work?” hoping to hold on to whatever normalcy I could.
“It was okay,” Dad sighed, a hint of weariness in his voice. “Some of the Tanner boys stopped by for a chat, and Ms. Conner went on about her latest homemade pie—it's in the fridge if you want some later. She was excited about it.”
“What kind of pie?” Charlie’s eyes lit up with genuine curiosity, her face eager—like she’s been craving a comforting home-cooked moment, just like me.
“Let me guess, Cherry.” I said remembering the last time Ms. Conner got into a pie frenzy.
“Actually, pumpkin,” Dad admitted, a nostalgic smile tugging at his lips. “Something about the season.”
“Sounds incredible,” Charlie said softly, leaning in a little as if already tasting it.
While they delved into dessert details, I couldn’t resist sinking my teeth into the cheesy goodness of the pizza. A burst of flavor made me moan softly, the richness washing over me like a fleeting moment of bliss amidst the chaos inside.
So absorbed in that fiery explosion on my tongue, I barely noticed when the conversation paused.
“Sorry,” I mumbled around a mouthful, cheeks bulging with food. For a second, I saw something shift in Charlie’s eyes—her gaze darkening just a little—before she grinned and kept talking, as if nothing had changed.
Then she asked, voice soft but curious, “What’s the purpose of these dinners? Why do you keep this tradition alive?”
Dad’s face softened with something almost tender. “It’s just a way to do something nice for the kids. You know, to remind them they’re loved. And with Anna going through therapy—well, it’s good to have something normal, someone to relate to.”
My stomach clenched at the words, a strange prickling of vulnerability.
“You were in therapy?” Charlie’s eyes flicked to mine, her expression shifting—like she was seeing my scars for the first time, understanding just a little more.
“Yeah,” I mumbled as I set my slice down, feeling the weight of the confession. “My mom died a few years ago.”
A sudden sickness curled in my gut.
“What for?” Charlie asked, her tone gentle but persistent, eyes searching mine with a kind of quiet curiosity, like she was trying to understand me better.
“An awful fire at the town’s bowling alley, Anna—” Dad began.
“Dad,” I hissed, cutting him off.
“Sorry, about that Belles. I truly believed we had already spoken enough about it, and I thought I understood, but apparently I was wrong.” His apology felt hollow as the damage had already been done. I shook my head, trying to hide the ache inside, smiling through the pain.
“Dad, could we maybe finish up a little early? Jessica’s throwing that party, and I honestly think it could be a wonderful chance for Charlie to connect, to maybe find a piece of her happiness among new friends.” I was hoping relying on Charlie as an excuse wouldn’t come back to haunt me.
“Sounds like fun,” Charlie offered a gentle, confident smile, her eyes sparkling with some deep, unspoken emotion that only made her more captivating.
“Do I need to call your dad and get his approval?” Dad asked, and I couldn’t help but cringe at the typical parental filter—“let’s get approvals.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll just tell my older brother I’ll be out late. He won’t mind.” Her voice was steady, full of assurance, but I saw that flicker of guilt lurking beneath—guilt that I couldn’t ignore.
“Perfect. Charlie, you can leave your bag here — it’s too much to carry to a party anyway. Thanks, Dad.” I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, then, filled with a mix of hope and urgency, I made my way swiftly toward the door, longing for the fleeting freedom that awaited beyond.
Charlie lingered for a second beside the family photos hanging near the doorway. Her fingers brushed the frame before she pulled her hand away. For the first time all evening, she looked sad.