"What else is going on, Wendy?"
I name the one thing that's been like a splinter lodged in my brain.
"I'm worried that it's too soon and people will think I'm weak. For taking him back. For forgiving him."
She narrows her eyes. "What else?"
Huffing, I push the words out through a tight throat.
"I'm worried I will think I'm weak, because... well, what if it happens again..."
"It very well might. Atlas could have a backslide," Dr. Pace says bluntly, her voice firm. "I think the question you might need to ask yourself is if it does happen again, are you willing to fight once more?"
"Yes," I respond instantly, not even thinking.
Dr. Pace smiles. "Why?"
"Because I love Atlas. Because his mental illness wasn't his fault. His trauma wasn't his fault. He knows his trauma wasn't his fault, but it's his responsibility to manage. He's managing it. He's changed. He's so involved with the boys now. He's so present, and when he has bad moments, when he has nightmares, he calls me. He doesn't suffer in silence anymore..."
Dr. Pace nods, her face eager. "And..."
"And because I found my voice," I say, feeling pride in myself welling inside my chest. "Because I won't enable bad behavior any longer. I won't lie down and be a doormat in the future. I will remain Wendy, and he will remain Atlas, and we will be a true partnership."
"Then that's your answer, isn't it?" Dr. Pace shrugs, crossing her legs and leaning back in her chair. "Strong women aren't unfeeling. I happen to think the ones who feel the deepest are the bravest."
Brave.
If you asked me a year ago to give a word to describe myself, I don't think brave would have been a word used.
I'm glad it is now.
???
I'm walking out of the therapy, feeling as I usually do—drained, but lighter.
It's Friday, and Atlas is at home with the boys, which we'veboth agreed is more beneficial to them to be in the space they're most comfortable, so instead of dropping them off at Diane and Emmett's, Atlas just comes over to watch them.
And I think that's been extremely beneficial to our healing in the environment we're most comfortable in. Remembering what we built in this home, remembering what we almost lost in this home, and continuing to build something even better in this home.
For the last two weeks, Atlas has left work on time, comes right over to the house, and we all eat together as a family.
On days that I work, Atlas volunteers to pick up takeout for us. On the days I do cook, he tries to get there even earlier to help.
It's different, and it took me a little bit to get used to it.
Before, when I would be in the kitchen cooking, Atlas would get home from work, exhausted, go up to take a shower, then settle on the couch with Liam to watch ESPN.
Noah would sit at the coffee table with them, sketching in his book or playing on his little Nintendo. I would juggle dinner and cleaning up as I went, leaving less mess for me afterward, and then call them in.
Now, Atlas gets home—usually with flowers for me and little snacks or surprises for the boys. He kisses me before he rushes up to shower, but he comes right back down into the kitchen after and asks, "What can I do for you, baby?"
So, I'll hand him veggies to chop while I handle the main course, or if it's an easier meal, he'll just hang out in the kitchen with me.
The boys will either be doing their homework at the table or finishing up their chores before setting the table for us and grabbing drinks. Atlas, while he's always been so complimentary with me, has dialed up his game.
Instead of complimenting the result, he recognizes and praises the work.
"Thank you for cooking, baby."
