“And you want to understand how to support her?”
“Yes,” I repeat, sharper this time, like if I don’t say it firmly enough, she won’t take me seriously.
She studies me for a moment then leans back slightly. “Before we talk about Eden, I want to talk about you.”
I frown. “This isn’t about me.”
She doesn’t argue, just tilts her head. “Everything that happens after trauma affects everyone close to the survivor, including partners. Especially partners.”
I stay quiet.
“That urge to fix things,” she continues. “To take control. To protect. To get angry on their behalf. It’s common.”
My jaw tightens.
“And often,” she adds softly, “it makes things worse.”
I scrub a hand down my face. “I should’ve protected her, kept her safe.”
She nods slowly. “All completely normal feelings.”
I swallow hard. “I blamed her.” The words taste like rust. “I thought she’d cheated,” I force out. “I couldn’t understand why she pulled away. Why she flinched. Why she cried during sex.” My voice drops. “I thought it was guilt.”
There’s no judgement in her expression, just sadness.
“She likely didn’t tell you because she was afraid,” Amanda says. “Not just of what happened, but of what would happen after. And sometimes, it can take time for a survivor to process what’s happened to them.”
My heart aches, and my eyes sting.
“She lost control once,” she continues. “Survivors often do everything they can to make sure it never happens again. That includes staying quiet. Staying agreeable. Staying small. Avoiding confrontation. Anything where control might be challenged or taken.”
I stare at the floor, shame burning behind my eyes.
“It can be difficult to understand why survivors make some of the decisions they do, especially for loved ones. But being there, listening and supporting, helps.”
A rough breath tears from my chest. “I wasn’t there for her at all. I didn’t do any of those things.”
“But you’re here now, and that matters.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable.
“What do I do now?” I ask finally. “It was months ago. She’s had counselling. She seems better.” I shake my head. “I’m scared of saying the wrong thing, of dragging her back to that time.”
“You listen,” she says simply. “When she wants to talk, you let her. You don’t force it, and you don’t rush her healing to ease your own guilt.”
I close my eyes briefly. “I don’t want to hurt her again.”
She hesitates, then exhales quietly. “I’m a survivor too.”
I look up.
“I was raped ten years ago,” she continues. “By a close family friend. I didn’t tell anyone for a long time. Not my parents. Not my sister.” Her mouth tightens. “I felt ashamed, like I’d done something to cause it. Maybe I’d encouraged him.”
She takes a breath. “It took years for it to sit right in my head,” she says. “For me to understand it wasn’t my fault. Only then could I explain it to others.” She meets my eyes. “Every survivor handles it differently. Some go to the police. Some tell a loved one. Some tell no one at all.” She pauses. “But one thing is always the same,” she says gently. “It istheirtrauma to own. Their story. Their choices.”
I nod slowly.
“That doesn’t mean it didn’t affect you,” she adds. “It did. And you’re allowed to deal with that too. Just not by taking control of her healing.”
