When Christmas was six weeks away and festive wreaths had begun to pop up on every door, Daisy decided to see atherapist. The woman had been recommended by another army wife, Bonnie, whose husband had returned with severe post-traumatic stress disorder and, as she put it, “she saved their marriage and her sanity.”
Was Daisy misguided to believe a stranger could fix her, or just desperate? Either way, on the eve of her birthday, she found herself in the waiting room of the therapist’s office, staring at a bizarre Jenny Saville portrait print of a troubled-looking woman.
“Do you think the woman is happy or sad?” the therapist asked, breaking her thoughts.
Daisy turned to see a woman standing in the doorway with a coffee cup in her right hand. She took in her features, noting how, despite being in her early sixties, the woman wore flared jeans and a tight, low-cut blouse.
“It’s hard to say,” Daisy replied. “Maybe a mixture of both.”
“If you had to lean towards one, what would it be?”
Daisy turned her attention back to the painting briefly. “Sadness, maybe.”
“Interesting.”
“Is that not the correct answer?”
“There’s no such thing as a correct answer. Has nobody ever told you? When it comes to the arts, everything is open to interpretation.” The woman walked past her and pointed to her office. “Come through. I’ll just get rid of this.”
Daisy entered and took a seat, and a minute later, the woman reappeared.
“Now, we discussed briefly on the phone about your husband, Calvin—”
“Callan,” Daisy corrected.
“Apologies, Callan. He was injured while deployed, correct?”
The woman sat down in her chair and leaned back.
“That’s correct.”
“Well, that’s good,” she said, almost to herself. “At least I know I’m talking to the right person.” She paused and leaned forward to pick up a leather-bound writing pad. “We will get to him in our next session, but first, I want to know about you.”
Daisy stared at her blankly, which made the woman laugh.
“You’re paying me good money, and I can’t help you, Daisy, if I don’t know who you are. Sure, I could give you some generic direction and a listening ear, but to truly help you and for you to get your money's worth, I need you to let me in. So, tell me, who are you?”
Daisy had been asked this question at least a dozen times in her life—in job interviews and awkward first dates. However, something told her the therapist wasn’t requesting a running itinerary of her job history or the grade she got on her GCSEs. She wanted the real intel, the receipts, and unspoken truths buried deep.
Daisy hesitated, then admitted, “I’ve always struggled with relationships. If I’m honest, I don’t think I’ve ever been truly loved. Not in the way people write about in songs or in the way I see in films. I was the ugly duckling, or at least, I’ve always felt that way. Even as a teenager, I was the girl men noticed only when they needed something—when they wanted someone who wouldn’t say no. I guess they knew I was vulnerable. Needy. Easy to manipulate.”
The therapist said nothing, just watched her, pen poised but unmoving.
“My mother had me late in life,” Daisy continued. “She was great when I was young, but already tired by the time I was old enough to really need her. I don’t mean she didn’t love me—she did, in her way. But she became distant, like she’d already lived her life, and I was an afterthought. She passed a few years ago; it’s just me now.”
She glanced at the therapist, then, half-expecting pity. Instead, she nodded, encouraging her to continue.
Daisy shifted in her seat. “I have no idea who my father is, and I don’t intend to find him either. I have my suspicions; I think he was married, and I suspect my mother was the other woman.” A small, humourless laugh escaped her. “She never said as much, but there were gaps in her story, you know? Things that didn’t add up, and over the years, I’ve heard whispers. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
“Because it matters,” the therapist said, writing something. “Because it’s a part of you.”
“Is it, though? I don’t know who I am outside of this. I’m a wife and a mother, and that’s as far as it goes. I don’t know who I am outside that.”
She tapped her pen against the writing pad, considering Daisy’s words. “Then, I think that’s where we start.”
XXIII
DAISY
