Page 62 of Wisteria and Cloves

Under"Known Triggers"was a single entry:"Breaking items (associated with physical punishment)."

"This is... different than I expected," I admitted, turning the page.

"What did you expect?" Nicolaus asked, his tone curious rather than defensive.

"A list of all the ways I'm difficult," I finished quietly. "All my flaws and problems documented for you to manage."

Nicolaus's expression grew pained. "That's exactly what we hoped to avoid. This isn't about managing you, Lilianna. It's about understanding you." He gestured toward the folder. "Look at the next section."

I turned the page to find"Comfort Measures"with several entries:"Chamomile tea," "Soft blankets," "Poetry," "Time alone to process," and "Gentle, non-pressured conversation."

"You were paying attention," I said softly, surprised by how carefully they'd observed what helped me feel better.

"Of course we were," Nicolaus replied. "The people who care about you should notice what brings you comfort." He leanedforward slightly. "But here's what's important—this document belongs to you. We want you to add to it, correct it, change it as needed. You have complete authority over what goes in here and what doesn't."

I ran my fingers over the neat typeface, absorbing the implications of what he was offering. "So I could... add things? Things that help me feel safe or things that make me anxious?"

"Exactly," Nicolaus nodded, his blue eyes warming with approval. "You're the expert on your own experience. We can observe and make educated guesses, but only you truly know what you need."

The concept of having authority over how others understood and responded to my needs was revolutionary. My parents had always decided what I needed, what I should want, how I should be treated.

"I don't even know where I'd start," I admitted, still leafing through the pages.

"That's perfectly fine," Nicolaus assured me. "It's not something you need to complete right away. Add things as they occur to you, or as we discover them together." He paused, his expression thoughtful. "The goal is to give you a voice in your own care."

I closed the folder, holding it against my chest. The weight of it felt significant—not burdensome, but meaningful. "What if I write something and then decide I don't want it there anymore?"

"Then you change it," Nicolaus said simply. "Or remove it entirely. This is a living document, not a permanent record."

The small gift bag caught my eye, and Nicolaus followed my gaze. "That's something else I wanted to give you," he said, reaching for it. "It's not as profound as Christopher's kintsugi stone, but I thought you might find it useful."

I accepted the bag hesitantly, peering inside to find a beautiful leather-bound journal with my initials embossed in gold on thecover. The leather was soft to the touch, a deep forest green that reminded me of Miles's eyes.

"For your thoughts," Nicolaus explained quietly. "Sometimes writing helps clarify feelings that are too complex for spoken words. And unlike the safety document, this would be entirely private—no one would read it unless you chose to share."

I opened the journal to find thick, cream-colored pages that felt substantial under my fingertips. "It's beautiful," I whispered, running my thumb along the smooth leather binding.

"Julian suggested the color," Nicolaus admitted with a small smile. "He said green might remind you of peaceful moments in Miles's garden."

The thoughtfulness behind even this small detail made my throat tighten with emotion. "You all discussed what color journal I might like?"

"We discuss everything that might affect your comfort," Nicolaus said matter of-factly. "Not to control your experience, but to enhance it whenever possible."

Nicolaus glanced at the folder I still clutched to my chest. "There's something else I wanted to discuss with you, if you're feeling up to it."

I nodded, curious despite my lingering embarrassment.

"We'd like you to consider seeing a therapist," he said gently. "Someone who specializes in trauma recovery and family dynamics."

The suggestion caught me off guard. In my parents' world, therapy was something shameful—a sign of weakness or mental instability. "You think I need professional help?" I asked, unable to keep the defensive note from my voice.

"I think we all do, at various points in our lives," Nicolaus replied without hesitation. "I've been in therapy myself, after a particularly difficult case involving child abuse. It helped me process emotions I couldn't manage alone."

His casual admission stunned me. This accomplished, controlled man had sought help for his emotional wellbeing, and he spoke about it without shame or embarrassment.

"Really?" I asked, my voice small with surprise.

"Really," Nicolaus confirmed, his expression open and honest. "Some experiences are too complex, too painful to process alone. There's no weakness in seeking guidance from someone trained to help navigate healing."

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