I laugh, "Yeah, it was... God, it wasawful.In comparison, I mean, I've had worse Christmases, but... dinner was awkward. Atlas was trying. He kept the boundaries the boys were setting, but still... he was trying so hard."
"That's good," Dr. Pace smiles, and I nod my agreement.
"It is. It..." I close my eyes with a dreamy sigh. "It was nice to see him on Christmas. He seems so less tense now. He coiled himself into a knot so slowly over that year, I never even noticed until I saw the difference."
"I was dying a slow death."
His words reverberate around my head.
"We usually don't even recognize it ourselves," Dr. Pace nods.
Chest tight, I continue. "I asked the boys if they wanted to have their Dad there to open gifts with them in the morning. Noah couldn't really give me a solid answer, but Liam—very firmly—said no. I know he wanted to say more, but he held himself back."
"He's not lashing out so much. Thinking before he reacts."
"But he still feels it," I murmur, shaking my head. "I can see what he wants to say written on his face."
Dr. Pace narrows her eyes, "Do you think it's because what he says echoes your own feelings?"
I tense, feeling cornered because she's right.
What Liam sometimes expresses in family therapy are sometimes the dark thoughts running through my head—why does he care now?
And I know that I should be happy and grateful that hedoescare now, but...
"I feel guilty for feeling like that."
"You usually do," Dr. Pace observes.
"When you've been told your entire life by your mother that your existence ruined her life, I'm surprised I'm not even more fucked up," I laugh humorlessly. My words sound bitchy and bitter, and I clamp my mouth shut after they're out. I feel ridiculous for even sharing them.
Your husband had to wrestle the gun away from his brother. Why the hell do you deserve to feel like this? You're the one who left him. You couldn't see that your husband was struggling because you were wrapped up in your own head.
Selfish.
Failure.
"I'm glad you recognize the source," Dr. Pace says, writing something down in her notebook.
"It's weird. I know where the thoughts come from, and I fall back into the habit anyway."
"Because people mistake familiarity for comfort," Dr. Pace says, leaning forward in her chair. Her gold nose ring catches in the lamplight and her eyes lock onto mine. "Guilt feels comfortable for you, because you've existed in it for so long that you made yourself at home inside of it."
I couldn't feel more exposed if I stood naked in the middle of Times Square.
I open and close my mouth a couple of times, trying to find the words that vanish from my head as I try to grab them.
Rubbing my eyes against the sting, the tears slip down my cheeks anyway.
"How do I stop feeling guilty for not seeing that my husband was struggling mentally? I just assumed he was a bad husband. Now I have us separated because I couldn't be bothered to—"
Dr. Pace gives me a look.
"To what, Wendy? Atlas is not your child; he is an adult, your husband, your partner," she taps a hand over her heart. "Our mental health is our own responsibility."
I shake my head, "And yet. I can't stop feeling like I shouldhave done more."
"Can you build a time machine and go back to tell yourself that Atlas is struggling with his mental health?"
