"Hi, baby," Atlas says when I sit down by his side.
I can't stop staring at him.
"You're here."
He smiles.
"No place I'd rather be."
Chapter Thirty-Four
Wendy
"I felt like a married single mother."
Atlas' face tightens at my words, but Dr. D'Amore stressed to us that this is only going to work through complete honesty. That anything I'm feeling needs to come out, because not sharing is the whole reason we're even here.
Dr. Lupita D'Amore is very petite, with big brown eyes, dark brown hair, and golden tan skin. The many degrees and certifications hanging behind her desk are a testament to her reputation, but her kind demeanor reminds me of Diane.
Her office is cozy and bright, with warm colors and rustic decorations instantly putting me at ease. I'm not shaking as much as I was when I walked in.
It's a little odd being back here. Different office, same position. On a couch, sitting in front of a couple's therapist to help us solve our problems, only this time I'm not alone.
Atlas sits to my right, twitching hands on his legs. My eyes can't stop drifting to the gold ring on his finger, over the tattoo of our wedding date, and my initial.
They drift down to my own finger, empty.
Atlas is showing up. He's proving that he wants to be here. He wants to repair the relationship with our sons, with me.
I'm just scared that this is temporary. Dr. Pace explained to me that Atlas could relapse. That he could fall, and I would need to decide if I will be there to pick him up again.
I will. Because it's my Atlas. My husband. My soulmate, if such things even exist.
It's just the threat of the floor dropping out from under mewhen all of these things have been going so well.
But, if this past year has taught me anything—from recognizing that there's an issue, standing up for myself and my children, getting a job and gaining some much-needed independence—it's that I'm a lot stronger than I ever thought I was.
I can carry the weight, for now. I will be there for Atlas through everything, and I have faith that he will be there for me, too.
"I was used to all of the childcare, because I made that my job," I continue, shrugging my shoulders. "I felt... that since I didn't contribute financially, I had to doallthe childcare. I had to doallthe housework. I was the one who had to keep everything in order. So I poured into everyone's cup, balanced the boys' schedules, bought the groceries, prepared the meals, and cleaned the entire house. If not me, then what was my purpose?"
I take a deep breath, my heart slamming in my chest. Atlas' hand twitches on his knee like he wants to reach out and comfort me. He doesn't, and I'm both happy and sad about that because I don't think I could express the pain I felt that year with his warm, loving touch.
"I was constantly worried about people questioning me if I asked for help—all you do is housework, all you do is watch your kids, and they're in school for the day, so what is it that you do?I felt like I had to keep moving, keep cleaning, keep everything together, or someone would say something, and it would just confirm everything my mother ever told me about my existence.Useless."
"Baby..." Atlas whispers, his voice agonized.
I can't look at him. My mouth is an open faucet as I just let it all out.
"And then even when I thought I had everything together... it never felt like enough, because Atlas was doinghard laborat work every single day. He was coming home so tired. Drained. His hands aching. His back aching. Dealing with difficultclients, and I'm complaining about mopping some floors? Cooking? Helping my boys with some homework? What kind of mother and wife am I if I couldn't even handlethat?"
Dr. D'Amore names it. "Guilt."
I nod. Atlas sniffles next to me, reaching up to wipe the tears dripping from his eyes, and every single one I can feel it in my chest.
"Then, when Atlas started pulling away, it was like a confirmation that Iwasfailing at being a wife... then maybe I was failing at being a mother too. I questioned every single move I made that last year when I could feel Atlas pulling away—what was it that I did, or didn't do? What did I say? Did I forget something? Why did he stop loving me?"
"I never—"
