"Why aren't you allowed to feel angry, Wendy?"
The question feels like she just tossed a match on a powder keg.
"Because Atlas had to wrestle a gun from his brother's head! What right do I have to feel angry at him for having to suffer through that?"
My words are too loud in the quiet room, and I cringe, hoping no one in the hallway could hear that. Dr. Pace doesn't even flinch at my outburst, just keeps her face measured.
"And you weren't aware of that. Are you not allowed to feel angry for the way you were treated?"
I shake my head stubbornly.
"Anger is cruelty," I choke out, and Dr. Pace's face softens in understanding. I continue miserably, "If I'm angry, it means I'm cruel and ungrateful and unfair and—"
"—and that you were hurt?"
My mouth snaps shut.
"Two truths are allowed to exist here, Wendy. Atlas was suffering greatly from an immensely traumatizing event, and—" she says, leaning forward. "You and your children were emotionally neglected by him for a year. His pain explains the behavior, but it doesn't mitigate the hurt."
The tears fall freely now, and a sob tears its way from my throat.
"I was so lonely in my own marriage," I admit, exhaling choppily. "I was so lonely, and I just wanted him to talk to me. I tried to get us help. I had to answer the boys' questions about why their Dad doesn't talk to them anymore. And I still feel selfish for admitting all of this."
"Naming your harm doesn't deny his struggle. They don't cancel each other out."
"So, what do I do?"
"Let the anger exist. You spend so much time burying it under guilt, you forget to take a look at why you're feeling angry. And that matters. Your feelings matter, Wendy."
It takes me a few moments to squeeze out the question I'm dreading the answer to. "What if the anger..."
"What if you turn into your mother?"
The abrupt question jolts me, but I nod.
"You won't." Dr. Pace says confidently, and at my disbelieving look, she smiles. "Because you're asking that question."
Chapter Twenty-Five
Wendy
"Hey," I grin at Liam, who tosses his basketball bag in the back. I hold out a bag of his favorite chocolate-covered pretzels from Mabel's. "Gotcha something."
Liam smiles when he sees them and practically hops into the front seat. Noah's in the back, giggling at his tablet as he shovels Hot Cheetos in his mouth.
I treat the boys to a snack before our family therapy appointments. A little positive reinforcement never hurts.
"Thanks, Mama," Liam says, practically tearing open the bag and shoveling five pretzels into his mouth. I flash him a warning look that he's going to choke, but he just grins at me.
"How was school?" I ask, pulling away from the curb.
Liam smiles at his phone before he finishes typing out a text. It’s the Birdie smile.
"Good, Will and I have a science project for next month."
"Project or a paper?"
"Both," Liam scrunches up his face. "We have to presentandtest it out to pass."
