Page 51 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

Swallowing hard, I do my best to process his words without reacting defensively.

Mental health isn’t something that Sokolovs acknowledge. If you’re not tough enough to battle your mind demons, then you should be ashamed. That’s what I grew up believing, because that’s what I was told.

As an adult, of course, I’ve begun to see things differently. I know that anxiety is real. Depression is real. Fear and grief and exhaustion aren’t just signs of weakness, but clues that there are facets of ourselves that we need to stop and pay more attention to.

And yet, there’s a little girl inside me that balks at Dr. Hansen’s words. That insists I’m strong enough to handle it.

“What do you mean?” I ask. “Like, get a therapist? Get on meds?”

He shrugs again. “Perhaps. I would recommend starting with some basic talk therapy, and then if you and your therapist decide together that you need more assistance than that to handle your stress, there are many options other than taking pills. It’s up to you, Alina, but I would ask you to seriously consider it.”

I’m fine,I want to snap at him.I’m tougher than I look. I’m tougher than all of you. I’m unstoppable. Unbreakable. I can do anything, I swear.

Deep down, though, I know that’s not true. I am human, just like everyone else.

It’s just that admitting weakness is easier said than done.

I force myself to give him a polite smile.

“Right. Okay. I’ll look into it.” I’m pretty sure I mean it, too.

He hands me a detailed recovery guide, complete with stretches and exercises.

“Remember, rest is the most important part of this process. My professional opinion is that you should refrain from playing for at least another two to three weeks.”

I flinch.

“However,” he continues. “I also understand that this is your career, and that you’ve been playing the violin for most of your life. So, my more reasonable professional recommendation is that you at least try to keep your daily practice time to only thirty minutes or so per day. And take it easy when you do.”

I nod, clutching the papers like a lifeline. “I think I can handle that.”

Dr. Hansen grins. “Good. Best of luck, Alina.”

My steps feel lighter as I leave the clinic, even though the realization that I still have to endure weeks of rest dampens the full extent of my relief.

But it’s okay, I remind myself.I’m going to be okay.

My career isn’t over. My life isn’t over. I no longer have to contend with the possibility that I’ll have to forge a new path for myself. I can keep making my way down the same path that I’ve been cultivating my entire life.

And yet, something about that path feels different to me. I know that it’s not entirely healthy. I know that there are metaphorical brambles and protruding roots. I know I need to follow Dr. Hansen’s advice about tending to my mental health alongside my physical health.

Making my way back out to the reception area, something nudges at the edges of my thoughts.

For some inexplicable reason, the first person I want to tell this good news to isn’t Karina or Andy or Diana Crane.

It’s Gabe.

However, before I can investigate that desire much further as I step out of the clinic, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I glance at the screen and groan inwardly. My mother is calling.

It’s the first time she’s bothered to reach out since our tense conversation a couple weeks ago. I had started to wonder if my parents might stop talking to me entirely.

For a moment, I consider letting it go to voicemail, but I know that will only make things more difficult. Bracing myself, I swipe to answer and bring the phone to my ear.

“Hi, Mom,” I answer, trying to keep my voice neutral.

“Alina,” she says, her tone sharp. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. Why haven’t you called me?”

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