He diverts my attention by explaining his grading system, class list, and schedule.We discuss office hours and the material for his lessons, all very basic and straightforward.He hands me a thick file.
“I printed the materials for you,” he says.“Feel free to modify or deviate from the plan.Students love a good anecdote.”
He takes me to his classroom on the first floor—a lecture hall with stadium seating that seats 150 students during normal semesters.For the Rare Plants class, it’ll accommodate twenty-five students.
My tension rises sharply.I can’t imagine teaching five, let alone twenty-five.
But the setting is familiar, at least.Ivy and I spent many quiet summer days here in the front corner with books and snacks in hand, while he delivered lessons on pollination and photosynthesis.That I’ll be taking his place feels absurd, though I hold the same doctorate as him, with two additional degrees.I hug the thick file to my chest, hoping that physical pressure will alleviate the mental one.
“It helps to imagine that you’re teaching one person rather than a crowd.Just picture explaining the concepts to Henry, like you used to,” he says.
Imagine myself in a room full of Henrys?I don’t think so.
Soon, he ushers me outside for the milkshakes he promised, and we enjoy them on a bench overlooking the turtle pond.My cookies-and-cream shake satisfies me immensely.This was often our reward for staying quiet in his summer classes, one I didn’t always earn.Some days, sitting still proved too challenging for me, as if I had ten times more energy than everyone else and could spontaneously combust if I wasn’t actively moving.
After an elongated, peaceful silence, Dad asks, “Do you have any regrets, Venus?”
His question stuns me.Thanks to therapy, I know my family fails at effective communication.Dr.Broderick assures me that most families do, but in our case, Ivy overshares, while Dad and I are the opposite.Ivy could talk for hours about absolutely nothing, which makes it easy to lose focus.Dad and I could sit for hours without speaking.The conversations we did have stayed at surface level—plant care, garden ideas, and our thoughts on journal articles or books we’d read.Attempts at real emotional depth felt strained and unnatural, especially since I’d do nearly anything to escape those feelings.
But when I was in trouble at school, our comfortable rules of engagement changed drastically.
Then, our talks were meant to cut straight to the heart of me—a full dissection to analyze my inner workings and determine why I behaved the way I did.Verbalizing my private thoughts and deepest feelings felt forced…difficult… given that I’d had little practice.
Only with Henry did I feel comfortable sharing feelings because he so freely shared his with me, butonlywhen he asked, andonlywith the knowledge that he wouldn’t judge or shame me for it.
“Forgive me for prying,” Dad says after a beat, “but I haven’t had the opportunity to spend time with you, and I’ve often wondered.”
“I regret my inability to control my impulses and being difficult.Is that what you mean?”
“No, your impulses weren’t your fault, and I never viewed you as difficult.You faced challenges I failed to understand—that’s one regret I have.”
An unsure smile plays at my lips at his declaration.“I appreciate that.”
“I want to understand you better now.So, please don’t say what you think I want to hear.I mean, genuine regrets, decisions that changed your future for the worse.”
“I regret getting Henry into trouble so much, and the times our activities led to his discomfort.I regret not listening to Ivy most of the time.”
He chuckles.“We’re both guilty of that.”
“Beyond that, I don’t know how to answer.Most of my decisions have been made for me.”
“I never should’ve let you go,” he says after a pause.“That’s my deepest regret.”
“I wanted to go,” I argue, confused.“That’s whatIwanted.Not just wanted, it’s what I needed, and it was the first time you listened.”
“I always listened,” he corrects gently.“I didn’talwaysknow what to do or how to help you.But that night, you were desperate and hurting—you needed your family.But instead of holding you and assuring you, I gave you permission to run away, and you’ve been hiding ever since.That’s my fault.Perhaps it’s too little, too late, but I’m sorry.”
Energy surges in me, forcing me to stand and set the milkshake down at my feet, unable to enjoy it.“Is this why you insisted I come back here?”
“I didn’t insist,” he says, ever-calm.“Dr.Miner called me with her concerns.”
“So, you conspired against me, trapped me into this,” I finish, hands fisting around the manila folder I still carry.I slap it against the bench beside him, and the breeze flutters it open.
He pauses.“It’s not a trap.It’s an opportunity.I’d like us to talk more.”
Dr.Broderick would be pleased—talking more usually benefits those involved and builds stronger relationships.But already our communication feels like walking a tightrope, and any misstep could send me over the edge.He regrets letting me leave, but he doesn’t understand how that one decision saved me.Even worse, his apology makes me feel like I’ve done everything wrong.A dark tunnel closes around me, swallowing me in suffocating tension.
“Talk more?”I repeat weakly.“Such a conversation will only make us both feel worse.If we talk more, I’ll be forced to explain the full extent of the suffering I endured over people who failed to understand me.I survived indignities, mistreatment, and abusealonebecause I was convinced that it was better that way.If you’re determined to entertain regret, regretthat—not the one decision that finally gave me… a chance.”
