Page 121 of Back to Willow

“Have you tried anything I suggested for those?”

“I haven’t had nightmares since after our first and second sessions. So, not yet.”

“You can do them even if you don’t have nightmares. Meditation, for example, is good for all kinds of anxiety. Or yoga.”

“I’ll try it now that I have more time. I have been reducing the TV screen and bright lights from eight o’clock until I go to bed.”

“That’s good. That helps a lot, too.” I nod, agreeing. “You can also listen to some music if you feel anxious; it often helps you relax as well.”

“Will do,” I answer, noticing the clock striking five-thirty in the afternoon.

One hour has passed, and our time has finished.

“I’ll see you next week,” she concludes, standing up from her chair and shaking my hand. “Merry Christmas, Willow.”

“Merry Christmas, Dr Hellen.”

“Mummy, where have you been?” Dylan jumps into my arms as soon as I enter the house.

“Sorry, baby. There was a lot of traffic on the way here.” I pout at him, feeling guilty for leaving him waiting.

“I kept him entertained,” Liam pipes in from behind him, making me look at him.

Every time we lock gazes, the same thing happens: my heart feels like it’s flying out of my chest and my hands get clammy with the nerves that overtake me. I’d hoped that after all of this time, I wouldn’t feel this nervous in his presence, but I guess, given the circumstances, it’s justified.

There was a sliver of hope that he wouldn’t be here anymore. Ridiculous, since he has been waiting for me every single time in hopes of apologising and getting me to talk to him.

He’s even bought me a bouquet of flowers and perfume another time he spent the afternoon with Dylan. It surprised me big time, and it was hard to keep my composure of indifference. Especially since he was so tired and still powered through the day. I almost gave in that day.

Nana has continuously been allowing him to come in and wait for me. I swear that woman is always up to no good.

“Thank you for picking him up from school,” I mumble.

“Don’t thank me,” he groans. “We had a lot of fun, didn’t we?”

Dylan nods eagerly, looking at me with begging eyes.What now?

“Are you hungry?” I ask him. He nods again, and I bristle, “Alright, let me cook dinner.”

“Can Liam stay for dinner, Mum?” There it is. The real reason for his puppy eyes. They’re still wide and shiny accompanied by his irresistible pout.

“Of course,” I give in, huffing.

“Finally,” he exclaims. “Why are you mad at him?”

“I’m not,” I counter.

“You are,” he whispers with a frown on his face. “You never talk to him. I thought he was your friend, too.”

Jesus, can this kid let something go? I settle with, “Mom’s just been busy.”

“No,” he tuts, shaking his head. Is this a six-year-old or a thirty-year-old? “You’re angry.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are. You do the same when I do something bad.” His eyes turn down, looking at his hands. “Why?”

“Are you saying I ignore you when I’m angry at you?” I gasp, feigning offence.

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