Page 39 of Open Secrets
Nina softens. “Children who grow up through hardship don’t look back and remember perfection. They remember love. And from what I hear, your kids had that. They had you. Even if you weren’t there for every birthday, they had a mother who fought tooth and nail for them.”
Maria swallows hard, whispering, “I don’t feel like they had me.”
Nina folds her hands in her lap, eyes steady on both of us. “I hear both of you want to work on your marriage. That’s good—that’s important. But I need to pause here.”
Maria stiffens slightly, bracing.
Nina softens her tone. “Maria, what you’ve just shared—the guilt, the isolation, the way you carried all of this alone—that’s not just about your marriage. That’s aboutyou.That’s about wounds that go deeper than this relationship, and they deserve space of their own. Space where you’re not worried about hurting Lyle, or protecting him, or holding back because of his career.”
Maria blinks fast, eyes darting between Nina and me.
“This,” Nina continues, tapping her pen lightly against her notebook, “is marriage therapy. We’ll work here on how the two of you communicate, how you rebuild trust, how you reconnect. But Maria—for the weight you’re carrying? I recommend you also have your own therapist. Someone focused only on you—on helping you process your grief, your anger, your guilt. That isn’t a punishment. It’s a form of care.”
Maria opens her mouth, then closes it again. Her throat works as she swallows, eyes flicking between us. Finally, her voice comes out small, wary. “So you’re saying… I’m too broken for this to work?”
Nina shakes her head firmly. “No. I’m saying you’re human. And no human can hold all of that alone. If anything, getting your own therapist makes this marriage therapy stronger—because you’ll have a space to unload what doesn’t belong in this room. That way, in here, we can focus on theus.”
Her gaze shifts to me. “And Lyle—I suggest you do the same.”
I stiffen, my first instinct to argue. To say I don’t need it, that I’ve already done enough of that with Army shrinks. But the truth is, I haven’t. Not really. And Maria’s silence beside me feels like an indictment.
Maria exhales, shaking her head slightly. “I don’t know if I can do that. Another therapist. More digging around in shit that already stinks.”
Nina nods slowly, thoughtful. “That’s fair. And I want to be clear—youcantalk through those things here, with me. I’m not shutting that door. But it can get complicated if I’m both your individual therapist and your marriage therapist. It risks me carrying information from one space into the other, even unintentionally. And I never want either of you to feel I’m on one person’s side.”
She sets the pen down, folding her hands. “Some couples choose to keep everything under one roof, and we can do that if you both agree. Others find it more freeing to have their own therapist as well—someone whose only job is to holdthem.”
Maria glances at me, then back at Nina, uncertainty written across her face. “So… it’s possible. Just messy.”
Nina’s mouth lifts in a small, reassuring smile. “It’s your decision.”
Chapter Twelve
Maria — Present
“My therapist thinks I need a therapist.”
The words fall out of my mouth as I push open the office door, still riding the bitter aftertaste of today’s session. I really, really should’ve checked first.
Because the second I step in, Debra turns her head slowly from the tray she’s setting up, her eyebrows crawling toward her hairline. And the patient in the chair—Mrs. Fern, mid-forties, prone to root canals and gossip—just freezes with her mouth gaped open, the metal face hook keeping her jaw pried wide.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Debra doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head at me likeyou want to run that by me again?Her latex-gloved hand hovers above the suction tube, waiting for me to stop being a disaster in front of patients.
I stand awkwardly in the doorway, bag still slung over my shoulder, wishing I could shove the words back into my throat.“Right,” I mumble, forcing a smile toward Mrs. Fern. “Don’t mind me. Long lunch.”
Mrs. Fern blinks, eyes darting from me to Debra like she’s suddenly tuned into a soap opera.
Debra, mercifully, turns back to her tray. “Doctor Connelly will be right with you,” she says smoothly, her tone the perfect professional cover. Only the tight twitch of her lips betrays the fact that as soon as this poor woman leaves, she’s going to roast me alive.
I slip past, setting my bag down by the counter and pulling on gloves like I didn’t just announce my unravelling mental state in front of a patient.
I snap on the gloves, tugging them higher up my wrists, and nod toward the tray. “Alright, Mrs. Fern. Let’s take a look.”
Debra hands me the chart without a word, though her side-eye is loud enough to register. Cracked molar, bottom left. Emergency extraction. No wonder Mrs. Fern came rushing in.
“Bite down for me,” I say, pulling the overhead light closer. She does, metal glinting. “Okay. Open.”
