“Why do you think she forgave you? Was it only because you saved Charlie?”
My eyes searched the floor for an answer other than the one I knew. The one Sam gave me that I just couldn’t accept.
“She never should have forgiven me.”
“Derek, I was there when she forgave you. I know what she said.”
It had been during a session with just Sam and me. Jack didn’t need to hear everything we talked about, and even Jack agreed. He understood we had some shit to work out. I didn’t doubt for a second that Sam told him everything, though.
“I forgive you, Derek,” Sam said, tears running down her cheeks.
“I didn’t ask for forgiveness, Sam. I don’t deserve it.”
We sat on the couch next to each other as Haizley guided the conversation with vague questions. It was what she did during my private sessions, too. It was fucking infuriating that she wouldn’t just tell me the answers.
I had to work them out on my own, she said. That was how you learned, she said.
“The man who hurt me wasn’t the man I knew. The man I fell in love with. You’re a good man who did a bad thing, Derek. That doesn’t make you a bad man.”
I hadn’t believed her then, and I still didn’t believe her now.
“Good men don’t do bad things to innocent women.”
“But Sam wasn’t innocent, was she? She cheated on you and tried to pass Charlie off as your daughter.”
“Are you blaming the fucking victim?” I growled.
“No, I am trying to get you to understand that we all do things in the heat of the moment when consumed with emotion. It doesn’t make us bad people.”
Her voice lowered at the end, and the way she’d said “us”made me wonder what she had done. I didn’t ask, knowing she wouldn’t tell me.
“Sam was innocent. I lied to her. I knew she wanted children, and I led her to believe I wanted them too because I was a selfish fucking prick.”
“You’re making excuses, Derek.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Haizley blew out a frustrated breath, her shoulders sagging as she leaned back in her chair. She was always so professional, so carefully composed and unemotional, that seeing her react like this—seeing genuine frustration break through that therapist mask—made me think the end was coming. Any second now, she’d finally admit I was a lost cause and end these sessions. She’d tell me she couldn’t help me anymore, that I needed someone else, someone better equipped to deal with my particular brand of damage.
Only, I didn’t want them to end. I needed these sessions more than I cared to admit. Haizley gave me something I needed. A way to understand the patterns. The rage that lived in me didn’t come from nowhere. It had roots. My father’s fists, my mother’s silence—those things had built something in me brick by brick, blow by blow, year after silent year. Something dark and volatile I needed to control, not eliminate. Because it was a part of me now, woven into the fabric of who I was.
She was helping learn to control it. Helping me learn to trust myself. Trying to teach me how to forgive myself. She’d helped me to forgive my mother. That alone was worth everything.
“You’re making excuses for why you shouldn’t forgive yourself.”
“I don’t deserve fucking forgiveness,” I snapped.
Haizley sat back in her chair. “Let’s change the subject for now. Have you spoken to Frankie?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why would I?” I countered.
“She’s your daughter.”
It was my turn to be frustrated. Haizley refused to understand the law. “She’s not my daughter. I gave up that right when I signed those papers.”
