Couples therapy day. Thankfully, Maggie had requested this one be virtual, saving herself the stress of sitting in the same room as Gwen.
She dragged herself upright, pulled on a hoodie, and walked downstairs.
The coffee was already brewing, the kitchen smelling rich and warm. Colette stood at the counter arranging stems of eucalyptus in a stone vase, looking like a moody French lifestyle blog, and Maggie muttered, “Thanks,” by way of good morning.
Colette only smirked, poured her a mug, and said, “Good luck.”
Maggie balancedher laptop on her lap in the guest bedroom, still barefoot, still bleary, trying to center herself before Dr. Elowen’s face blinked onto the screen. The little video squares populated — herself on the left, the therapist in the center, and Gwen on the right.
Gwen sat at the kitchen table. Their kitchen table. Sunlight streamed through the windows behind her, bouncing off the familiar cabinets, the fridge covered in crayon drawings and magnets from road trips. Maggie’s stomach pinched, like she was trespassing in her own life.
And Gwen, immaculate as ever, hair neat, expression closed, as if she’d stepped into a deposition instead of therapy.
“Good morning,” Dr. Elowen said warmly, her square lighting up in the center of the video screen. “How are we all doing today?”
Maggie shifted, the mattress creaking under her weight, someone else’s life folded into crisp sheets. She took a sip of coffee to stall. “Peachy.”
Across the screen, Gwen gave the faintest nod.
The therapist’s eyes moved between them. “Last session, we touched on space — what it gives, what it costs. Today, I’d like to talk about communication. How you connect, especially as you navigate parenting together.”
Maggie rubbed a hand over her face. “Well, we don’t. Communicate, I mean. Not really.”
“That’s not true,” Gwen said, calm. Too calm. “We coordinate schedules, drop-offs, school events.”
“That’s not communication,” Maggie snapped, then sighed. “That’s logistics.”
Gwen’s jaw flexed, but she didn’t argue.
“Can you each describe what communication looks like, ideally?” Dr. Elowen asked.
Maggie gave a humorless laugh. “Ideally? I can tell her I’m falling apart without feeling like I’m burdening her. It’s her looking up from her laptop long enough to actually notice.” She glanced at her own square in the corner, the faint hollows under her eyes. “It’s not me screaming just to get a reaction. Which I did. I weaponized how bad I felt, because at least then she couldn’t ignore me. But it wasn’t fair. To her. Or to me.”
Gwen’s gaze dipped down.
“And for you, Gwen?” Dr. Elowen urged.
“Clear. Concise. Without volatility. I need space to think before I respond. I don’t want to be ambushed.”
Maggie’s laugh cracked sharp. “Yeah, well, news flash: Life doesn’t schedule meltdowns for your convenience.” Her voice softened as she tried to calm her own nerves. “I know I ambushed you. I wanted you to just… know what I needed without me saying it, and when you didn’t, I came at you sideways. That’s on me.”
“Which is exactly why—” Gwen stopped, jaw tightening again.
Dr. Elowen lifted a hand. “Let’s pause. What I’m hearing is that Maggie values immediacy and vulnerability, while Gwen values order and reflection. Neither is wrong, but they clash.”
Maggie rubbed her temples. “They clash us right into the ground.”
The silence stretched. Then Dr. Elowen said gently, “Youmentioned something happened on your Las Vegas trip. Would you be willing to talk about that today?”
Maggie paused, glancing to Gwen’s stoic face, and she almost made a joke, but instead, she said, “We slept together. And I told myself it didn’t mean anything.” Her thumb worried the chipped rim of her mug. “But it did. For one night, it felt like I had her back. And then she woke me up to take a call, and I panicked, because I knew nothing had changed.”
Across the screen, Gwen’s throat worked. Finally, she said, “I thought it was a beginning. I thought maybe the pieces we broke could fit again. And when you said it didn’t mean anything, it felt like losing you all over again.” Her voice cracked before she steadied it. “I’ve spent years trying not to need more from you than you could give me. But that night? That morning? I wanted more. I still do.”
Maggie pressed her palm to her chest, trying to keep steady. “And I can’t trust that you’ll ever put me first. You haven’t shown me that. You didn’t show me that when you had the chance.”
The therapist nodded, voice calm. “What I hear is that night revealed there’s still love between you. But love alone isn’t enough. What you do with it matters.”
“Yeah, well, what we do is fight,” Maggie muttered.
