Steven
When We Pushed Too Hard
Emma-Isn’theso cute?!
My watch pings, and a photo of Easton pops up on the tiny screen. He’s wearing a chef’s hat, proudly holding a bowl of “soup” with his triumphant grin gleaming back at me.
Emma - It’s alphabet soup!!!
Except, when I squint, it’s not soup at all, just a jumble of multicolored squares and magnetic letters. Easton and Sawyer have officially started first grade. They’re gone five days a week, which means my phone has become less a communication tool and more a dumping ground for the never-ending picture mill of elementary school. And Emma forwards. Every. Single. Photo. To me.
Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing them smile. I love watching them learn. I love that Emma still wants me in these little moments. But when my wrist pingsmid–throat exam, it gets…distracting.
“Abscess in room four,” Sarah Kim announces too enthusiastically for someone about to deal with ear pus. She bounces on her toes as she hands me the chart. She’s our summer intern—a favor to Emma and Benny—and two weeks in, I’m already mildly exhausted. Not just because I’m pulling doubles before baby three arrives, but because I have to explain every little thing I do—or don’t do. All for the betterment of a teenager with a malleable mind, whothinksshe wants to be a doctor.
“Maybe. I’m not sure,” she’d said. “Or I’ll study archaeology.”
My watch pings athirdtime just as we enter room four. It’s a quick abscess, easy fix. Sarah practically vibrates with excitement, like this is something to write home about, while she applies the bandage. I miss that. I miss caring about small victories.
The rest of the day blurs by. I finish my documentation and head to my weekly appointment. Therapy. It hasn’t been what I expected. I feel stupid for assuming it would be easy. I thought it would help untangle things. Instead, I feel like I’m the only one talking. Emma listens, wanting to talk but not really saying everything. And it’s starting to frustrate me more than help.
I’m just tired. And the last few times I’ve shown up, I’ve been late. Then Dr. Belo subtly reprimands me for not making it a priority. I want to yellI’m here, aren’t I? Clearly, it’s a priority!But I just nod sheepishly.
Not today, though. Today, I’m ten minutes early. Enough time to indulge in their fancy cappuccino machine, which feels like a small, rebellious luxury.
“Good afternoon, Steven,” Dr. Belo greets me, appearing in the doorway that separates the lobby from the hall of offices.
“Afternoon,” I say, watching foam bubble and spill into the cup. The machine dings once it’s finished, and I scoop it up.
She smiles as I turn back, holding it carefully. “Those are a great part of my day too.”
“Oh, it’s just coffee,” I mutter, though the warmth seeping into my fingers is doing the same to my mood.
She leads the way to her office, sitting in her chair while I slowly, stealthily set the steaming cup on the coffee table.
“What’s the coffee at the hospital like?” she asks.
I snort. “Not as good as this stuff, but it gets the job done.”
“When was the last time you had the fancystuff?”
I eye her. Is this small talk, or are we officially starting?
“I used to get it quite a bit,” I finally say. “Haven’t had the time in the last…year or so.”
“Hmm. Is that frustrating for you?”
Ah. So we’ve begun.
“I guess,” I murmur into the steam, wincing when it burns my tongue.
“Has anything else frustrated you lately?”
I purse my lips. No warm-up questions for me, apparently. Emma gets asked about watercolors and weather patterns, but I’m just pelted with analytics right out of the gate.
“I don’t know,” I lie. I remember the exact moment I was frustrated last. “Maybe when Emma left the house without saying goodbye last week.” I shrug, like it doesn’t matter. But it does. She got the boys ready, and they all left without saying a word.
“Did you ask her why she didn’t say anything?”
