“We aren’t separating,” Steven retorts.
“We’re discussing options,” I amend.
“No. We aren’t separating.” Steven speaks through his teeth, the light in his eyes going dark. “We’re going through a hard time, sure, but we aren’t separating. That’s asinine.”
“It’s not asinine,” I argue. “A lot of people separate, and things get better.” Heat rushes to my face.
“It’s out of the question.”
“I’m not saying Iwantto.”
“Emma, you don’t know what you want right now. You’re exhausted.”
“You are too,” I grit out, wanting to explode. Just once, I want to unload all the irrational anger that seems to fester behind my breastbone on a constant basis. But I don’t. I exhale slowly and speak even slower. “What else are we supposed to do, Steven?”
“This!Therapy,” his voice rises. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To work through things?”
“We’ve been at this for a month, and things aren’t getting better, Steven!” Now my voice is rising.
“A month isn’t enough time to make a decision, Emma,” he growls. “You don’t get to make that decision without me. You don’t get to give up on us just because it’s hard. I get you’re going through things and you’re feeling…” His mouth tics as he fights against the words he wants to say.
“Feeling what?” I snap. “Depressed? You think my postpartum depression is the reason our marriage is falling apart?”
“Yes! I mean, no. It’s not that. I just… You just don’t know what you want.”
“And you do? Truly?”
His nostrils flare as his eyes burn into me. The muscles in his forearms tense, a twitch running through them with the effort of holding himself together. Gone is the calm, steady man I fell in love with, replaced by someone defensive and furious and too proud to admit he’s just as lost as I am.
Dr. Belo clears her throat, reminding us we aren’t alone.
“Why don’t we start over?” she advises, adjusting her crisp white button-up shirt and sitting up straighter. A power move, I’m sure. She’s the one in control, not us. Granted, I don’t remember the last time I ever felt in control.
“Emma?” She turns to me.
“Hmm?” I don’t look at her. My eyes seem to have found solace in the obscure bird painting in the corner of the room. The most colorful thing in this place.
“Let’s give Steven the chance to hear you out. You share, and he will listen.”
“I was—”
Dr. Belo cuts Steven off with a slow, commanding lift of her hand. He sucks in a breath and waits his turn. I stare at the birds. One is perched on a line, looking up at the sky, while the other is on the ground, looking up at the other.
“They probably can’t hear each other,” I murmur to myself, imagining the bird on the ground shouting at the other for help, for encouragement, for anything, and the other one has its head up in the clouds, blinded to the things at his very feet.
“What?” Steven grunts. “Can you focus on us, please?”
I gawk at him, at his tone, at the audacity that he would claim I’m not focusing onus.All I’m doing is focusing onus.That’s all I ever do is focus on us, we, them—everyone that isn’t just me.
“I’m here, aren’t I? This is me focusing on us.” I fling air quotes around sarcastically.
“Emma, please,” he says in a despondent, quit-embarrassing-me kind of way. “Just talk.”
“I’m trying. I’m putting myself in an uncomfortable situation totry,but you expect me to figure out my feelings after a few sessions.”
“That’s not it, Emma. I just want us to figure this out.”
“Do you? Or do you want someone else to see me losing my mind since having ababy?”
