Page 72 of What We Broke

“I went from husband to caretaker in a matter of days,” I explain. “I don’t even think I was able to make a pit stop at grieving father. It has been me spending months and months and months getting him to this exact point.”

Finally, I shift my gaze to his. “Don’t tell me I’m over it, because I’m not fucking over it. I’m just fucking tired.”

The silence builds as we stare at each other, Leo fighting off tears while I sit here riddled with tension.

“Jesse,” Dr. Sosa finally says. “I’m going to go ahead and say you’ve been the one to make sure everyone in your family is okay after Lola’s death.”

“He has,” Leo answers. “He’s always been the glue. He holds us all together.”

I wanted to be that man; I had lived to be that man. But for the first time in my entire life, I have never hated anything more than I hate being the glue right now.

“And, Jesse, what do you do to hold yourself together?”

“Nothing.” The answer leaves my mouth much quicker than I intend it to. I drop my chin to my chest, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor, my silence answering her question.

“Do you think you could tell Leo the things you need from him right now?”

Being in this room has always been so confronting. The layout, the proximity, the feeling of being completely exposed. It almost feels like a boxing ring, each person on either side, each truth, each flaw, each lie a punch straight to the chest.

And there was Dr. Sosa, coaxing you to get up, pushing you to try one more time.

I don’t have anything else left in me; one more hit and I’m going to bleed out here on her floor.

“He isn’t going to know what you need unless you tell him.”

“Just like that.” The sarcasm is dripping from my voice as I look directly at Leo. “What do you need me to tell you? Because my daughter died too. My daughter lost a sister too. My best friend carried a baby that didn’t survive too.”

The words just hang, and for the first time, I don’t regret them. If anything, I feel like I’ve taken my very first breath in over twelve months.

I didn’t say that to hurt him. I didn’t say it to punish him. It’s just a reminder that I was there. I went through it too. I am sad and lonely and lost too.

“Leo, do you want to say anything to that?” Dr. Sosa asks him.

He doesn’t avert his eyes, nor do they fill with tears. The only indication he’s even the slightest bit affected by my outburst is the movement of his throat and jaw.

“I didn’t think our grief was the same,” he says, and it completely throws me for a loop. “I told myself you already have a family, so it probably didn’t hurt you as much.”

And there it is, the hit I needed to bleed out.

“How can you say that?” My voice is nothing but shards of glass. “How can you even think that?”

“I know it’s not true,” he says, trying to appease me. He leans forward in his seat, almost like he wants to reach for me. “Subconsciously I think I always knew that. I just wanted to justify my pain. I wanted to justify how long it was taking me to get my shit together. I only felt like I was weighing you down.”

“Do you still feel like that?” I ask, the words sounding every bit as dejected as I feel. “All of it. Do you still feel like that?”

“Every day I feel like I’m weighing you down,” he confesses. “But the assumptions about your pain and grief—”

“No.” I cut him off. “That I have a family that doesn’t include you?” I don’t even wait for an answer before my uncensored thoughts fly out of my mouth. “What have I ever done that has made you feel or think like that?”

“Jesse,” Dr. Sosa interrupts. “For some people there is no rational thinking when it comes to their grief and processing it. A lot of the time, trauma can skew our perceptions and the way we see the world around us.”

I know she’s right. When Leo found out he was sterile, he and I had conversations that were very reminiscent of this, but I thought he had moved past it. I thoughtwehad moved past it.

Either way, I still just want her to shut up. I want her to fuck off with her logic and her facts and just let me and Leo be. I want a conversation with my husband where we are allowed to tear each other to shreds and then spend the rest of the night apologizing to one another.

I’m so sick of all of it.

I shoot straight up out of my chair and look between both of them. “I can’t do any more of this today,” I tell them. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t have it in me right now to think coherent, reasonable thoughts.”

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