Page 71 of Letting Go

I saw it as them caring. Paying attention. Loving her more.

But now? I see it for what it was: control. Wrapped in a bow and labelledstructure.They didn’t guide her; they puppeteered her. Down to her hobbies. Down to her future.

I chose law because I liked finding facts, loopholes and didn’t want to rely on anyone. Keira got Operation for her seventh birthday and they basically slapped a white coat on her soul and called it destiny. And maybe; God, maybe; she never even wanted it.

There’s so much to unpack there. Like, shipping-container amounts. But instead of doing that, I smileat the realtor, and say something stupid like, “Love the natural light.”

Because itisnice.

He warns me it’ll go fast, “market’s wild right now”, but I don’t buy the pressure. I’ve been watching Zillow like its porn and half these listings sit longer than my unresolved feelings.

Still. I want it. Or something like it. Not forever, just… soon.

Because my house, the one Mike and I pretended was our dream, feels like it’s shrinking by the day. Seems silly that I wanted it so bad in the divorce, when I didn’t even want to accept it when his parents offered it in the first place.

Truth is, I wanted to take something from him, anything that would hurt him. He hates his job, his parents already like me more than him, so the only thing left, was the house. Which I will sell, as soon as the ink dries on the divorce papers.

For now, I will rent. But, sooner than later, I’m going to find a permanent home, even if I have no idea what that is yet.

I grab a brochure, his contact card and slip both into my bag before heading back toward the therapist’s office. I’m a few minutes early, which feels like a small personal win considering I’m usually running five behind and blaming it on "traffic"

The door creaks open a few minutes after I sit down, and out come Dr. Landry and Keira.

Keira’s eyes are red and watery, like she’s been crying hard, but she’s standing up straight, shoulders squared. Not slouched and sulky like she was when she went in.

“You, okay?” I ask, trying not to sound like I’m about to throw myself into mom-mode panic.

“I’m alright,” she says. And weirdly… I believe her. I think she actually means it. It’s not that tight, brittleI’m fineshe’s been weaponizing like a shield. This one lands differently, like a small sigh of truth.

I know therapy isn’t magic. It’s not a one-session miracle cure. But damn it, I let myself believe this is a start. That maybe something shifted. Even a little.

Dr. Landry turns to me, voice calm and warm. “Can I steal you for a few minutes?”

Keira cuts in before I can respond. “Can I have the keys? I’ll wait in the car.”

“Sure,” I say, handing them over even though my gut clenches a little, because this version of her, the one that actually feels like a sister and not my replacement, is throwing me off balance. Like I’m meeting her for the first time.

She leaves with a little nod, not storming off, not running away, just… leaving. And I turn to follow Dr. Landry inside her office, bracing for whatever comes next, already feeling like maybe I need a session too.

The space is small but warm in that therapist-core way that’s clearly engineered for emotional unravelling. Earth-toned throw pillows. Anaggressively calm diffuser scent, lavender, maybe eucalyptus? wafting through the air like it’s here to personally soothe my inner child. There’s a worn velvet couch that looks very comfy and a mug that saysFeelings Are Validperched on a stack of books with titles likeThe Silent Scream of the Gifted ChildandBoundaries: Why You Suck at Them.

It’s quiet, but not awkward. Peaceful, in the way libraries used to feel before the internet ruined them. One wall is covered in abstract art and across from it, a tiny sand garden with a wooden rake, which feels deeply metaphorical and mildly judgmental.

Dr. Landry gestures for me to take a seat, then sits down herself. “Keira told me everything,” she says softly. “The affair. Her relationship with your parents, with you.”

Oh. Okay. We’re just diving in, no floaties.

Then, she tilts her head slightly, studying me like she’s trying to see through all my performative nodding and faux-stable exterior. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I say, instantly bracing for a lecture about parenting or boundaries or emotional constipation.

“Are you alright?”

And God, the way she says it; quiet, direct, no fluff; cuts deeper than all the other versions of that question I’ve heard lately. Nothow are you?Notyou holding up, okay?Just this simple, groundedare you alright, like she already knows I’m not.

I pause; throat tight. “I’m getting there.”

She nods like that’s a good enough answer, for now. “If you ever feel like you need someone to talk to, I’d be happy to recommend a therapist. Obviously not me. That’d be a major conflict of interest.” She smiles. “But my partner’s excellent.”

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