"Because I didn't let you see, Wendy," I tell her, my voice firm so she understands. "I couldn't even see it myself."
"How did I not notice?" She whispers to herself, but I answer anyway.
"My mental health ismyresponsibility, Wendy. Not yours. And I didn't let you in. Icouldn'tlet you in."
Her brow furrows, and she protests, looking angry at herself. "But I was your wife—"
"Yes, my wife, and you did what you could—you tried,"I cut in. "You asked me. You scheduled therapy. You did what a partner does. I didn't hold up my end...I'msorry."
She shakes her head, but I gently shush her.
"Wendy, I told you I would tell you in person. I feel stronger now, not... not completely there, but I feel better than I did a month ago. So, I want to say this, from the bottom of my heart.I am sorry.I am so sorry for hurting you. I am so sorry for neglecting you, for disrespecting you, for pulling away from you. I am so sorry for leaving you to parent our sons on your own."
"No, Atlas, you don't need to...I—"
Her face crumbles and she shakes her head, and this is something that always bothered me about Wendy: the guilt her mother instilled in her just by existing. Like it was her fault for being born, so she felt the need to apologize when she wasn't in the wrong. "Ihurtyou by filing."
"No, yousavedme by filing," I tell her, and she blinks, tiltingher head in confusion. "I was dying a slow death. You saved me, Wendy. Do you understand that?You saved me."
After hesitating, she nods and sniffles. I grab tissues from the box on the table and hand them to her, watching as she wipes her nose and eyes.
My hands twitch, wishing I could just reach out, brush the tears away with my thumbs and kiss the tracks.
"I'm so tangled up, Atlas," she admits, glancing down at her lap. "I feel awful for you. I'm so sorry you had to go through that. I'm so sorry, honey..."
I nod, encouragingly.
"But, I'm—"
"Still hurt," I finish for her.
She nods.
"I didn't... I don't want you to feel like my mental illness just excuses everything away—because it doesn't. I...a-a..." I stutter, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. When I open the, I say clearly, "I abused you—"
Wendy looks horrified, "No, Atlas—"
"Yes, Wendy, baby—yes,I did. I did. I gaslit you. I neglected you and our sons for an entire year. I hurt you. And I'm going to keep saying it until I've earned your trust and forgiveness. I am sorry."
She closes her eyes, another tear trailing down her cheek, before she nods.
"Thank you," she whispers, opening her eyes to meet mine. "So, what now, Atlas?"
Inhale, hold, exhale.
"I continue therapy. You and the boys continue therapy," I hesitate before asking, "Would... do you think they would be comfortable with me attending family therapy with you guys?"
She thinks about it for a long moment.
"I would be okay with it—I think it would be good for us—but I'll ask Liam and Noah. They finally feel more comfortable going, I want them to keep feeling safe."
The mother of my children,pride flows through me for my wife.
"Thank you. And then..." the next words threaten to choke me, but I push them out. There's too much on the line. "I would like to... if you are open to it... trying couples therapy again."
Her mouth opens slightly if she didn't expect that, and then her expression goes guarded, eyes dropping to her lap and eyes flicking left and right. Hurt flashes across her expression, and I feel it like a physical ache.
"I know I let you down," I say immediately, and she raises her eyes to meet mine. "I know I purposefully let you down with that appointment, but—I am completely committed now, Wendy. And I know it's selfish of me to ask on my timeline, but... I want to go to couples therapy with you. I want to fix what I broke. Please... "
