My chest aches with it.
“I still want things,” I admit before I can stop myself.
Dr. Alvarez’s gaze sharpens. “What things?”
I swallow. The wordeverythinglodges in my throat.
“A family,” I say instead, the confession quiet but seismic. “A real one. Not the idea of it. The work of it. Lily. Claire—if she ever… if she ever forgives me.”
Saying her name out loud like that feels dangerous.
Dr. Alvarez doesn’t interrupt.
“I want to wake up and make breakfast for someone,” I continue, voice rough. “Pack lunches. Argue about stupid stuff like whose turn it is to do bedtime. I want a house that feels lived in. Loud. Messy. I want to be there.”
My hands curl into fists. “And I hate myself for wanting it. Because wanting it feels cheap. Like pretending I didn’t already ruin my chance.”
“You wanting a family,” she says carefully, “does not erase what you did.”
“I know.”
“But denying yourself happiness doesn’t atone for it either.”
I breathe out slowly, my pulse loud in my ears.
“You’ve been living as if the worst thing you’ve ever done is the only thing that defines you,” she continues. “Claire’s comment challenged that narrative. That’s why it feels destabilizing.”
“It feels wrong,” I say.
“It feels unfamiliar,” she corrects.
I look down at my hands. “I don’t know how to want something without feeling like I’m betraying the past.”
“That’s because there’s something you’re still avoiding,” she says gently. “Something you’ve never allowed yourself to fully confront.”
My jaw tightens instinctively.
She notices. Of course she does.
“There’s a day,” she says, choosing her words with care, “that you circle around every session. You reference everything before it and everything after it, but never that day itself.”
I know exactly what she means.
The room feels smaller, and I just want to claw at my rapidly closing throat.
“I want you to write about it,” she says. “Just for you. You don’t have to show anyone. You don’t even have to bring it here if you don’t want to.”
I shake my head slowly. “I don’t think I can.”
“You can,” she says softly. “And you should. Because you’ve spent years avoiding it, and avoidance can never lead to healing.”
My throat burns.
“That day,” she continues, “is where you’ve buried most of your shame. Until you face it, it will keep deciding things for you, what you’re allowed to want, what you think you deserve.”
I stare at the floor, images threatening to surface if I let them.
My chest tightens painfully.
