“I’ll think about it,” Nora said.
***
On day five, Carson had his second therapy session.
“How did the homework go?” Dr. Carpenter asked. “One day without thinking about work?”
“Made it six hours. Then I went fishing instead.” Carson settled into the chair that was starting to feel familiar. “Does fishing count as not thinking about work?”
“Did you think about work while fishing?”
“Not really. Thought about other things. My dad. My sister. Nora.”
“That sounds like progress.” Dr. Carpenter made a note. “Tell me about your father. You mentioned he was killed in the line of duty.”
Carson talked about his dad. About being nineteen when he died. About the way the whole community turned out for the funeral. About becoming a cop to honor his memory.
“But you never got to grieve him properly,” Dr. Carpenter observed. “You were a kid, dealing with the trauma of your sister’s disappearance. Then two years later, your father dies. That’s an enormous amount of loss for a teenager.”
“I didn’t have time to grieve. Had to be strong for my mom. Had to keep searching for Lily. Had to—” Carson stopped. “Had to prove I could save someone. Even if it was too late to save the people who mattered most.”
“And have you? Saved enough people to make up for the ones you lost?”
“No. It’s never enough.”
“It never will be. Not until you forgive yourself for things that weren’t your fault.” Dr. Carpenter leaned forward. “Carson, you were a child when Lily disappeared. A teenager when your father died. Neither of those things happened because you weren’t good enough or strong enough or vigilant enough. They happened because the world is random and cruel sometimes.”
“If I’d been watching Lily—”
“You were seventeen. You were on the phone. You looked away for five minutes. That’s not negligence. That’s being a kid.” Her voice was firm. “And your father walked into an armed robbery. Nothing you could have done would have prevented that.”
Carson felt tears prick his eyes. “Then why do I still feel responsible?”
“Because it’s easier to feel responsible than powerless. If it’s your fault, that means you could have prevented it. Could prevent future losses. But if it’s not your fault—if it’s just random tragedy—then you’re powerless. And that’s terrifying.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Because she was right. Being responsible was painful. But being powerless was unbearable.
“So what do I do?” Carson asked, his voice trembling. “How do I stop feeling responsible for everything?”
“You start small. You practice letting go. You trust other people to handle things without you. And you accept that sometimes, despite your bestefforts, bad things happen. And that’s not your fault.”
“That’s a lot.”
“It is. But, Carson?” She waited for him to look at her. “You’re strong enough to do this work. You’ve been carrying this burden for nineteen years. Imagine how much lighter you’ll feel when you finally put it down.”
***
On day seven, Nora texted Carson.
Just three words:How are you?
She stared at her phone for ten minutes before sending it. Then stared for another twenty waiting for a response.
The reply came forty-five minutes later:Better. Trying. Started therapy. Miss you.
Four sentences. But they said everything.
Nora’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. She wanted to say she missed him too. Wanted to ask about therapy, about what he was learning, about whether he was really changing.
