"I have gloves you can wear while you shower. They're in thebathroom. Do you want coffee?"
I nod.
"Clean up and come down, I'll have breakfast too," she looks at me for a long moment, before pressing a kiss to my head. "I love you, Atlas."
My nose stings as I reply, "I love you too, Mom."
She smiles softly and gently taps my cheek before standing up and walking out the door.
Twenty minutes later, I'm sitting at the kitchen island, eating bacon and eggs and drinking coffee in silence, while my mom peers at me over her own cup.
"Where's Dad?"
"At the shop. He's... moving your appointments. You're taking off these next few weeks."
I open my mouth to refuse, to say that I'm fine, that I need to work, but her expression makes me snap my mouth closed. It's the expression that says,'argue with me, I dare you.'
And I know better.
I nod, and she gives me a small smile.
"We talked to Silas," she says, making me freeze. My fork clatters against the plate, my hand shaking. I quickly put it down and grab my coffee, taking a big gulp of it to clear my airway.
My mom studies me, her eyes still on the plate, on the fork. "He's recommending a therapist who helped him. He's an old friend of a friend in the military. You have an appointment tomorrow."
Resist.My mind instantly wants to resist, to fight, to dig my heels into the ground and refuse to go. To flee, to get in my truck and drive away. To disappear because that feels safe.
"Youwillgo, Atlas," my mom says, her voice fierce, her face pinched. "If you want any hope of being a father to your children. Youbrokesomething in them. Those boys look at you like they have no idea who you are. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw it last night."
My eyes squeeze shut, a tear falling down my cheek.
"If you want any hope of fixing this, you need to go."
I nod.
"We will all be with you every step of the way, but you need to do this yourself. You need to heal yourself. Do you understand?"
I look up at my Mama's face and her expression wounds me. She looks so sad, so hopeful, so weary.
I think of her and my father.
I think of my brother.
I think of my sons.
And I think of my wife.
"I'll go."
Chapter Eighteen
Wendy
December
"Well, I'll be... if it ain't my Wendy darlin'."
Smiling from where I'm crouched stocking bags of dried fruit, I turn to Mr. Jefferson.
