The rest of the morning passes in a strange haze. Emma takes Ethan to some toddler music class. Chase goes to the gym. Maya stays in her room with the door closed, and I resist the urge to check on her every five minutes.
I spend the time going deeper into the research I started before, past the basic articles about supporting survivors and into the harder stuff—the clinical studies, the detailed breakdowns of trauma responses, the forums where survivors talk about what actually helps versus what makes things worse.
This time, I'm not just skimming for quick answers. I'm taking notes. Saving articles. Learning the difference between helping and enabling, between being supportive and being overbearing. Understanding that recovery isn't linear, that there will be good days and bad days, and days where she takes three steps back after moving forward.
One article hits harder than the others. It's about how the people around survivors often want to fix everything, to make the trauma disappear, but that's not how it works. She has to do the work. I can only be there while she does it.
It's harder than I expected, accepting that I can't just make this better for her.
At 1:30 p.m., I knock on Maya's door.
"Ready?"
She emerges looking terrified. "No. But let's go anyway."
The drive to Dr. Mills' office takes twenty minutes through downtown Hartford traffic. Maya's silent the whole way, hands twisted in her lap. I want to reach over and hold her hand, but I don't know if touch is okay yet, don't want to trigger another panic attack.
The office is in a professional building downtown with lots of windows and comfortable furniture in the waiting room. Soft colors, calming art on the walls, the kind of space designed to put people at ease.
Maya signs in with the receptionist while I find a seat near the window.
"Mr. Anderson?" The receptionist looks at me with kind eyes. "Dr. Mills wanted me to let you know she appreciates you reaching out. It takes courage to ask for help on behalf of someone you care about."
"Thanks."
Maya's called back at exactly two o’clock. She looks back at me once before disappearing down the hallway, her expression a mix of fear and determination.
Then it's just me in the waiting room with outdated magazines and a fish tank in the corner where two goldfish circle endlessly.
I don't read, don't look at my phone, don't do anything but sit here and wait. My knee bounces with nervous energy until I force myself to stop.
An hour feels like three years.
When Maya finally emerges, her eyes are red and puffy, but her shoulders are straighter. Dr. Mills walks her out, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and graying hair pulled back in a neat bun.
"Maya's agreed to weekly sessions," Dr. Mills says to me. "Same time next week. And Maya, call if you need anything before then. Day or night. I mean that."
Maya nods, her voice thick when she speaks. "Thank you."
In the car, neither of us speaks for the first five minutes. I navigate through traffic, giving her space to process whatever just happened in that office.
"How was it?" I ask finally when we're on a quieter street.
"Hard." Her voice is rough from crying. "Really fucking hard. But good, I think. She didn't judge me. Didn't tell me I should be over it by now or that I need to just move on."
"Good."
"She said what happened wasn't my fault. That freezing is a normal trauma response. That my brain was trying to protect me." Maya wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I don't know if I believe her yet. But maybe eventually I will."
"You will."
More silence, but it's comfortable now. The kind of quiet that doesn't need filling.
Then—
"Thank you, Jackson. For finding her. For paying. For waiting. For all of it."
"You don't have to thank me."
