Page 33 of The Breaking Point

I exhale slowly, eyes on the floor. “But now I have, and oh, God I was yelling at Aiden about how he thought I wasn’t reacting wellto my father’s heart attack. I ended up blurting out the cheating bit, which my youngest overheard and told the oldest. So, I failed as a mother too.”

Dr. Brett leans forward a bit, voice gentle but steady. “What else do you believe you failed at?”

I chew on my lip, voice tight. “Well, my marriage, obviously. And apparently I’m a shitty daughter too, because instead of staying to talk to my bedridden, post-op father, I left before I exploded.”

He nods, inviting me to go deeper. “Okay. We’ll take this one at a time. Why were you going to explode?”

My voice breaks a little as I answer. “Because my father… he was treating the boys with such fatherly affection. It pissed me off.”

“Because?” he prompts softly.

“Because he never treated me like that. I practically begged for a tiny bit of his attention and never got it. My siblings did. My kids do. So it’s me. I’m a shitty daughter who…”

Dr. Brett’s voice is careful, urging me on. “Who?”

“Who no one seems to love,” I say, the words tumbling out faster now. “My parents claimed to love me, then they left. Aiden claimed to love me, all the while screwing strippers. It has to be me, right?”

The room feels colder, and I realize I’m crying, but I don’t care. I just want to know if I’m really that broken.

Dr. Brett leans forward slightly, his voice steady but kind. “Let’s start with your children.”

I nod, my throat tight.

“Why are you a bad mother?” he asks.

“Because I failed in protecting them,” I say quickly, like I’ve already gone over this with myself a hundred times.

“How?” he asks, calm and curious.

“I don’t know,” I mutter. “I’ll probably divorce their father. They know he cheated. And I’m jealous of the love they get from my father.”

He studies me for a moment, then asks, “Have you done anything to hurt them?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Have you said something hurtful to them?”

“No,” I repeat, quieter this time.

“Then why would you be a terrible mother?”

“I don’t know.” And I really don’t. I only know how heavy the guilt feels.

Dr. Brett nods once, thoughtfully. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to really think about it. If you had yourself as a mother; would you be happy?”

I sit with that for a moment. I think about the bedtime stories I’ve told, the way I made up silly songs to help them sleep. I think of the boo-boos I kissed, the snacks I packed for field trips, the school plays I cheered at like they were Broadway productions. I think about how I tried, every single day, to be what I never had.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Yeah, I’d be happy.”

Dr. Brett smiles, the smallest nod of reassurance. “No one can be a perfect human. We’re all flawed. We all carry baggage. As long as you’re doing your best, for them and for yourself; shouldn’t that be enough?”

His words settle around me like a warm blanket. It’s not a fix, not even close but it should be enough. I should be enough.

“Now, would you like to tell me about your parents?” he gently prods.

Dr. Brett gives me time. He does not press or fill the silence. I feel seen in a way that does not demand more of me. Finally, I speak.

“My parents, they were never around much when I was growing up,” I begin, voice low, almost embarrassed by the honesty of it. “I mean, I wasn’t neglected. There was food. There were clothes. But no one ever asked how my day went. No one noticed anything unless it was wrong.”

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