“Valentina, would you like to share something?” the group leader asked, his voice pulling me back into the room abruptly.
“Huh?”
“Is there anything you think is worth sharing with the group today?”
Suddenly, I could feel everyone’s eyes burning through me. Most of them were hopeful stares, desperate for me to spill my guts in their circle of trust.
“No,” I finally replied.
He offered me a tight smile. “It’s alright, Valentina. This space is judgment-free.”
“Oh, really? I don’t know. Seems pretty judgmental to me.”
He cocked his head. “You know, Valentina, you don’t have to speak if you’re uncomfortable, but remember, we’re always here.”
“Fantastic,” I said sarcastically, hoping he’d read my tone.
The meeting crept forward painfully, each story blurring into the next. Eventually, the leader clapped gently, signaling the end. “Let’s finish with the serenity prayer,” he announced softly.
Everyone rose, reciting the prayer in unison. I remained glued to my seat, staring blankly at the empty cup in my hand, waiting impatiently for the room to empty. Once the others had dispersed, I fished out the attendance slip from my pocket and walked up to the group leader, boots squeaking softly across the worn linoleum.
“Hey,” I said quickly, thrusting the paper toward him. “Will you sign this sheet for me?”
Slowly, he took a long look at the paper I held pathetically in my hands. “But you didn’t participate today.”
“So what?”
He clasped his hands in front of him. “Attendance isn’t enough. Participation matters. Otherwise, I can’t confirm you’re genuinely engaging.”
Frustration burned in my stomach. “I sat here for two hours. What more do you want—a pint of blood?”
“It’s about genuine participation. I’m sorry, but I can’t sign.”
My fists tightened, crushing the slip between my fingers. I forced a bitter smile. “Look,” I said sweetly, my voice laced with anger, “I really need that signature.”
He sighed and shook his head in disappointment. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“No, I’m sure you can,” I retorted, annoyed. “You just don’t want to.”
“The program only works with honesty,” he replied calmly. “Pretending won’t help anyone—not you, not us.”
I laughed quietly, leaning in and lowering my voice to a harsh whisper. “Honesty? That’s rich. You spent fifteen minutes last week telling us how you can barely stand your wife. Maybe I should share that with her. Think that’d be helpful?”
There it was—panic in his eyes. “That’s completely inappropriate.”
“So is your refusal to sign,” I hissed back, holding the paper out again. I was done being denied—my inheritance, my chip, and this stupid signature. “Make your choice. Sign the paper, or we both leave here unhappy.”
He watched me carefully as if I’d walk away, but there wasn’t a chance in hell I was leaving without that signature. Finally, he snatched the paper from my hands and signed the bottom aggressively.
“Thanks,” I said, my attitude clear. Couldn’t even pretend to be grateful. Not today.
He didn’t reply, which was probably for the best, because anything he said would’ve just pissed me off even more.
When I made it outside, my pulse was hammering so loud I could feel it in my fingertips, clutching the stupid crumpled paper he’d finally signed. Just one signature, one damn name on a meaningless slip, and yet I’d had to practically blackmail the guy to get it.
What other choice did I have? These were the games I played now, scraping together proof I wasn’t spiraling even though I absolutely was. Lying my way into one more shot at an inheritance, a chip, whatever it took to keep people off my back.
At least today I’d gotten what I wanted. And maybe that made me a bad person, but honestly? I could live with that.
