“She doesn’t want to let go.”
“No. Too many ghosts in the walls. She raised all her kids there.”
I look out the window. “Too much love. That’s always the trap.”
Callie’s voice lowers. “You know his dad was an alcoholic. Violent.”
I nod again. I hadn’t known, but I’d suspected. It was in the way Mason moved sometimes—like he was always positioning himself between you and the threat. How he read a room before he spoke, and never touched you unless he was absolutely sure it would be welcome.
“She stayed anyway,” I say.
“She thought she had to.”
“She thought it would be worse to leave.” I shift slightly in my seat. “It’s textbook. The justification loop. Minimize, rationalize, absorb. Because at least she understood the pain she had. The unknown might be worse.”
Callie exhales, not disagreeing.
We drive a few more blocks in silence. Westwood rises around us—glass buildings, clean lines, quiet sidewalks.
“She doesn’t want to sell because it’s hers,” I say, more softly now. “Because surviving something makes you feel like you earned it.”
“Yeah,” Callie says. “And because no one else sees it that way.”
She pulls into the lot and cuts the engine.
The medical plaza is a cluster of clean, modern buildings just off Le Conte. The shared lobby smells like bleach and hand soap. There’s a dentist’s office, a plastic surgeon, a pediatric allergist. Nothing here advertises what I’m here for.
But I don’t, either.
I braved the bathroom again just long enough for a quick shower before we left. Soft black leggings, my most threadbare hoodie—easy choices. Hair pulled back in a loose knot, still damp at the ends. No makeup since yesterday. My mouth’s dry. Hands, cold.
“You sure?” Callie asks, keys in hand, eyes steady on mine.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“I can go in first. Let Dr. Keaton know we’re here.”
“Stay with me.”
Her expression softens. “Of course.”
Inside, the waiting room is quiet. One potted ficus, a salt lamp on the receptionist’s desk, and a stack of unread magazines fanned neatly across a table. The walls are soft green and off-white. Everything looks clean. Contained.
Dr. Andrea Keaton appears before we even sit down. Mid-forties, dark skin, her twists pinned back from her face. Her white coat bears her name in embroidery so crisp it looks freshly stitched. She doesn’t smile right away, but her eyes are kind.
“Andrea,” Callie says, standing.
They hug briefly—familiar, respectful. I recognize it immediately: former teacher or mentor. Someone Callie shadowed once and never forgot.
Andrea turns to me next. “Nina,” she says, holding out a hand. “I wish we were meeting under different circumstances. But I’m very glad you came in.”
Her grip is warm. I hold it a moment longer than I should.
She walks us back to a softly lit exam room and shuts the door. “We’ll take this at your pace. I’ll confirm everything, remove the IUD if you’re ready, and explain how the medication works. Nothing happens without your say-so.”
Callie pulls up a stool near the head of the table as Andrea steps out to grab gloves and paperwork.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “You just got home. I shouldn’t have pulled you into this today.”
