Sandra makes a soft humming noise, not interrupting.
“Dad…I could see that my mom was worried when we all sat down. Her hands were shaking when she put the plates on the table, but he just…Dad took one look at it and scoffed. He said, ‘Why did I bother coming home? I could’ve eaten something this dry at the office.’ Mom’s face went white, her eyes so big that they took up almost half her face. She just…Shewithered. She shrank into herself, as if making herself smaller would mean he would leave her alone. I remember thinking that I just wanted to see her smile, to make things better. So I took a bite of peas—Ihatepeas—and told her they were delicious.”
“What happened next, Dillon?”
I blink Sandra back into my focus, my expression dull. “Dad turned on me, his face red and angry. He shouted at me, told me I was stupid, that there was something wrong with me, and that I better shut my mouth if I knew what was good for me.”
Sandra’s pen glides across the tablet screen. I force myself to look away, not wanting to dwell on what she might be writing.
“I learned from that,” I continue, “to keep quiet. I didn’t want him to turn his anger on me, even if it meant leavingherdefenseless. And it wasn’t as if she defended me, either.”
“What did you do instead?”
“I told jokes. Bad ones. I went out of my way to make my mom’s smile real.” I shrug. It doesn’t matter. “When Dad was around, when he was angry, I hid. Playing my own game of pretend, just like Mom did.”
Sandra’s watching me assessingly, and it feels like a thousand insects crawling over every inch of skin. “So, you learned early on that speaking up had the potential to makethings worse, for you and for your mother. That it was safer to stay quiet.”
“I guess. He wasn’t abusive,” I tell her, sounding more confident than I feel. “He was just…” I trail off, because how do you describe a man so negative and unhappy that he has to drag everyone around him down, his primary target being the woman he claims to love?
And isn’t that exactly what I’ve done to the womanIlove?
“What just happened?” Sandra asks.
I jerk my head up. “What?”
“You were thinking something. What was it?” Her smile is small and encouraging.
“I…” I dig my fingers into my knees, trying to center myself. “I was thinking that I did the same thing to Charlie. I had all these feelings when she walked in that morning, and I didn’t know what to do with them. All I knew was that Barrett was there and she was leaving. So I just…I dumped it all on her.”
“Because you learned two lessons from your parents. That it’s safer to pretend, smile away the pain, and that it’s easier to strike out at someone than admit that something’s wrong.”
My shoulders sag under the weight of that, but Sandra’s not done.
“You were trying to control Charlie, use her insecurities against her in the hopes that she would concede and stay.” Her voice is gentle but firm. “And control might feel safe, but that isn’t love, is it?”
I shrug listlessly. “I do love her, though. It just…All I could see was that look on her face, and it felt like I wasn’t enough, especially if she could walk away so easily.”
Sandra settles back in her seat, looking proud. “You’vemade some real progress here in the last few weeks, Dillon. A lifetime of lessons won’t disappear after a few therapy sessions, I’m afraid. You need to put real work into changing your mindset, avoiding those triggers, and learning how to communicate in a healthy way.” She pauses, letting it all sink in, before adding, “Love makes us vulnerable. It leaves us feeling powerless and out of control, and that is terrifying. But it’s worth it.” I nod my head, even when what she’s saying feels impossible.
“How do I relearn those lessons?”
“By doing what you’re doing now—naming your feelings, facing the obstacles.” Sandra watches me carefully. “We know what triggered you this time. Next time, it will be about recognizing that storm—stoppingand really thinking about the words coming from your mouth. It’ll be about asking yourself: what am I trying to achieve right now? Am I acting out of control and fear? Or love?” She pauses for a second, eyes never wavering from my face. “You’ll be able to ask yourself,” she says, voice too soft, too knowing, “if you’re trying to make someone else feel small just so you don’t have to feel that way.”
I clench my fists, looking away, hating that everything she’s saying rings true, each word landing like a blow.
“What about Charlie?” I ask, voice tinged with desperation. “How do I get her to forgive me for this?”
She lets out a soft sigh. “It’s not about getting her to do anything, Dillon. First, you need to forgive yourself for the child you were. Realize that it wasn’t your job to protect your mother or to stop your father. And then, forgive yourself for the actions you took as a man. Maybe then, you’ll be able to show Charlie the changes you’re making.” She smiles. “But these changes aren’t for her.”
“Who else would it be for?”
Sandra’s expression doesn’t change. “Yourself, Dillon. It’s about breaking the cycle and showingyourselfthe man you can be.”
Chapter 17
Dillon
Jack’s the first thing I see as I walk into the The Foundry Taproom, already sitting at a table with two beers and his phone in his hand.
