Dr. Chen's expression doesn't change. "You're not your father, Daniel. But you're right that you made his choice."
"What choice?"
"Fear over love. Control over connection. Safety over risk." She pauses. "And in trying to protect her from your damage, you became exactly what you were afraid of becoming."
The words hit like Trevor's fist.
"I destroyed her because I was scared." I can barely speak. "How do I come back from that?"
"You start by understanding that you can't control outcomes. You can only control your choices." She reaches for a notepad. "I'm going to give you an assignment."
I brace myself for some therapeutic exercise that won't change anything.
"I want you to keep a trust journal." She writes as she talks. "Every time you feel the urge to control a situation out of fear, I want you to choose trust instead. Then document it. Write down what you chose, what you felt, what happened. Bring the list to our next session."
"Trust." I say the word like it's foreign.
"Start small. A colleague makes a mistake—trust them to fix it instead of taking over. Someone asks for autonomy—give it. You feel vulnerable—sit with it instead of building walls."
"What if I choose trust and it backfires?"
She looks at me steadily. "Then you learn. But right now, control is backfiring. How's that working for you?"
Point taken.
"This is hard work, Daniel." Her voice is firm. "Change doesn't happen in one session. It takes time. Commitment. Are you willing to do that?"
Am I?
Bailey told me to figure out why I did this. To do the actual work.
Trevor said the same thing.
They're both right.
"Yes." The word comes out stronger than I feel. "I'm willing."
"Good. I have twice-weekly slots available. Tuesdays and Fridays. Ten AM."
I nod. Book them both.
When I leave her office forty minutes later, the sun is too bright and I feel like I've been flayed open.
But underneath the raw vulnerability, something else.
The beginning of a path forward.
***
Back at the apartment, Dr. Chen's words follow me like ghosts.Your mother made you believe you had to earn love through usefulness. That being wanted meant being needed.
I drop my keys on the counter and head straight for the shower, hoping the water will wash away the raw feeling under my skin.
It doesn't work.
I close my eyes under the spray, and Bailey is there. Always Bailey.
The memory comes sharp and vivid—her in my bed three months ago, skin flushed and damp, hair spread across my pillow like dark silk. The way she looked at me when I moved inside her, like I was everything. Like I was enough exactly as I was.
