Page 53 of The Very First Night

“I know. You’re leaps and bounds from where you were a few months ago. However, I worry that without the outlet of seeing me every week that maybe one day you might not feel so great.”

It takes everything in me to not roll my eyes at her assumption. You have one bad breakup and suddenly you’re the kind of person who needs a therapist.

As if she can hear my thoughts, Janet clears her throat. “It’s not shameful to see a therapist, Kat. Most people would benefit from it. Heck, I see mine every single week.”

“But you’re a therapist…” I say questioningly.

“Therapists need therapy too, Kat.” She looks down at the watch on her wrist, signaling that our time for today is over. “Please at least call to learn more about what they offer. It doesn’t hurt to call.”

Staring down at the papers in my hand, I nod.

“And remember what we’ve been working on. Boundaries are important, Kat, even with the people we love…especially with the people we love. You deserve to feel valued in your relationships—boundaries help.”

When I step out of my therapist’s office, the summer heat blankets my skin instantly. I’ll be relieved when the weather shifts to fall, but given how the past few years have been, we probably have another few months of this hell.

As I open the mailbox in front of my house, the scorching metal handle nearly burns my hand. I quickly retrieve the mail and rush inside, relieved by the coolness of the kitchen. I set the warm envelopes on the counter before pouring myself a tall glass of ice-cold water.

Mom isn’t home, but that is to be expected as she told me this morning that Randy, her coworker, called off again. To my surprise, she hasn’t been working as much this summer as she usually does. Whether that is because she has wanted to spend time with me or has just been that worried about my mental health, I don’t know. However, it’s been nice having her around.

Setting my glass on the counter, I begin sifting through the mail. Mostly junk—credit card offers that go straight in the trash, a bill from my dentist appointment last month, a letter from the bursar’s office listing out my financial aid for the semester—and then there is a simple white envelope, unassuming but somehow compelling. I turn it over in my hands, feeling inexplicably drawn to its contents.

I stare in awe at the name in the upper left-hand corner.

Patrick Marritt.

Ripping open the envelope with little reserve, I pull out a single piece of college-ruled paper.

Hey Kat,

I hope you’re doing well. This is weird, I know this is weird. My dad, or I guess our dad, gave me this big green chest to take to college with me last year and I don’t think he even realized it, but I found a letter from you at the bottom with some old documents. It’s dated a couple of years ago, but you said it was your freshman year of college, so if I’m doing the math right I think you’re a senior? I’ve been trying to figure out how to reach out. I’m a sophomore at OSU, I’m studying mechanical engineering. Sorry, I’m not sure what to say.

If I’m being fully honest, finding that letter was the first time I found out you existed. You probably hate me for never reaching out, but I promise that I would have had I known. Being raised an only child, I would have loved to have a sister…and I guess I do. I understand if you want nothing to do with me. Hell, I wouldn’t want anything to do with me if I were you. But…I hope you do, because I’d really like to get to know you.

I brought you up to my dad. He was an ass about it—if I’m being fully transparent he’s always an ass—but even more so when it came to this. My mom died about five years ago from cancer. I don’t know what she knew, but I want to think she didn’t know about you and your mom. I’m pretty good at math and I can guess that there was probably some overlap. I didn’t ask him about that, though. Just about you, but he didn’t have any information to give.

So with that being said, if you’d be willing to…and I completely understand if you don’t…I’d like to get to know you. The address on the envelope is to my apartment in Columbus. I hope you write back…but, like I said, I get it if you don’t.

Your brother,

Patrick

As I stare down at the paper, I don’t have the slightest idea of how I feel. I thought about my brother a lot when I was younger—about what it would be like to have a sibling. I always assumed that the reason I didn’t know him was the same reason I didn’t know my dad; I assumed he simply didn’t want to know me.

I came to terms with that a long time ago.

Yet, as I stare down at the letter, I struggle to come to terms with the fact that something that I accepted as truth years ago was anything but.

Dad didn’t even tell him about me? How the hell do you keep that knowledge from your child? Then again, how does he do anything he does and manage to sleep at night?

The reminder of how inconsequential I am to my father stings, but it’s par for the course. Outside of the court-mandated child support when I was a kid, I didn’t matter and I still don’t. Once I was eighteen and he didn’t have to send the minuscule checks anymore, I guess I stopped mattering in that regard, too.

Patrick, though—Patrick cares. Even if he bears the same name as his dad and my glorified sperm donor, he cares. Or he wants to, if I’ll let him.

I just spent the summer putting myself back together after the hellscape of last semester; do I really want to rip open a new wound?

The sound of the key in the front door causes me to stuff the letter under the papers from my therapist. When my mom appears in the doorway, her apron slung over her arm as she drops her keys on the table by the door, she smiles over at me.

“How was therapy?” she asks.

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