“I started thinking that if I left and something happened, it would be my fault.”
“It wouldn’t have been.”
“I know that now.” She paused. “I missed my assessment yesterday.”
My heart sank. “Oh, Emma.”
“It’s okay. I’m getting another chance.” Her instructor knew enough to arrange a later evaluation. But she couldn’t keep disappearing. “So I ended it. Again.”
Again. That word stayed with me for weeks.
For illustrative purposes only
Emma hadn’t broken up with my son that afternoon. She had simply repeated a breakup he’d refused to accept two months earlier.
Daniel stayed in rehab another six weeks. He started seeing a psychologist there. At first because I insisted. Later because he wanted to.
He had to face things he’d spent years calling “stress” or “love.” The jealousy. The fear of being abandoned. The control. Using guilt instead of simply saying what he felt.
