it again the next day.”
Her eyes softened.
“That sounds like something a therapist would say.”
“I’ve been seeing one.”
She blinked.
“You have?”
I nodded.
“After the divorce. Mark kept pushing me. I went once to prove it wouldn’t help.”
“And?”
“It helped enough that I went back.”
She looked down again.
“I’m glad.”
There was no bitterness in her voice. That somehow hurt more.
“I should have gone while we were married,” I said.
“We both should have.”
The admission sat between us, not as blame, but as truth.
Later that evening, Linda returned with soup. She placed it on Sophie’s tray and then turned to me.
“Can we talk outside?”
Sophie looked worried. “Mom—”
“It’s fine,” I said, standing.
Linda led me to a small family waiting area at the end of the hall. The room smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant. A muted television played a
