Page 89 of October
"And the second part," she said, "is boundaries—especially at work. There is a reason why many affairs begin at work. Not necessarily because someone stops loving their partner at home but because the work environment itself can create an illusion of intimacy and validation that feels separate, safer somehow, from the real mess and weight of family life."
She folded her hands, her gaze steady.
"But that separation is false. It's a dangerous convenience your mind creates, a way to compartmentalize feelings: here, I'm admired and understood; there, I'm needed and obligated. And while it can feel harmless at first, it's exactly that split that becomes fertile ground for betrayal."
She paused, letting her words sink in, "Affairs don't usually start with grand declarations. They start with a thousand tiny permissions: a text answered late at night, a private lunch, a story shared that really should have been told at home first. You have to guard your marriage not by building walls around it but by keeping your emotional doors open to each other, so they don't swing quietly open to someone else."
Dr. Mireille turned slightly toward me, her voice calm but edged with unflinching honesty.
"And yes, Thomas," she began, her gaze steady, "I do understand how much you were shaped by your father's abuse. So many of your instincts, the silences, the guardedness, the desperate need for validation; they were forged in that environment. In that, youarea victim, and it isn't your fault. You didn't choose that childhood, and you didn't deserve it."
She paused, letting the words settle before her tone grew firmer.
"But the choices you made later, the texts, the coffee breaks, the attention you gave to someone who wasn't your wife, that part, Thomas, was yours alone. That wasn't your father's hand guiding yours. That was you, and it was a betrayal. A painful breach of trust, whether you meant it or not."
She leaned back, her expression softening just slightly. "Understanding where your patterns come from is important. But it can't be an excuse. Because healing begins when you hold both truths at once: that part of you was hurt into being and another part chose to hurt back."
Hearing those words felt like something sharp slipping under my ribs. I wanted to look away, to pull back into the quiet self-defense I'd learned so well, but I didn't. Because every word, as much as it stung, felt like it belonged here. Dr. Mireille let the silence stretch, giving space for the weight of what had just been said to settle in the room. Then she turned to me, her voice calm but direct.
"So now, Thomas, what are the concrete steps you've already taken, and what do you intend to keep doing, to help rebuild trust with October?"
I shifted slightly in my seat, then took out a folded paper from my wallet, drawing in a breath that trembled just a little
"I already made a list," I began, my voice catching slightly as I unfolded the paper, my hands just a little unsteady. " I've started reading some of the books you recommended, trying to understand not just what I did, but why."
I drew in a breath, steadying myself. "So... first: being present," I said slowly, choosing each word with care. "Not just for the milestones or the moments that look good from the outside,but in the everyday, ordinary spaces too. Being there whenever October needs me, or even just wants me close without her having to ask."
I paused, glancing at her, seeing the hurt still there in her eyes, and it made my chest tighten.
"Second," I went on, my voice quieter now, "communicating, even when it feels uncomfortable. Talking about where I am, what I'm feeling, especially when it's something I'd usually keep to myself. More than that, listening to her anger, her sadness, the bitterness that's mine to carry because I'm the one who caused it."
I swallowed, feeling the raw edge of guilt in my throat. "Accepting that it's mine to face. That I don't get to rush her healing, or decide when the hurt should be over. It's my fault she has this pain, and it's my responsibility to hold space for it, for as long as she needs."
I looked down at the paper for a moment, then back at October.
"And finally," I said, my voice low but firmer, "reminding her, in every way I know how, that I'm hers. That I always have been, even during the worst of it, twisted as that sounds and that I always will be. Because love isn't just what you feel; it's what you show, every single day."
My chest felt heavy as I finished, the truth of it pressing hard against my ribs but also a quiet resolve. A promise I meant to keep, not just in words, but in the smallest, hardest choices from here on out.
Dr. Mireille listened quietly, then nodded once. "Those are important steps, Thomas. But I'd like to add a few more, ifOctober is willing. This will take courage from both of you," she continued. "Because trust isn't rebuilt by words alone, it's rebuilt by consistency and vulnerability."
She paused, then said, "I'd like you to start an honesty journal together. Once or twice a week, just a single page each, where you both write something raw and real. It could be a fear, a confession, a regret, or even something good you noticed about each other. No editing, no erasing. Then, you share it. Read it out loud if you can."
She leaned back, voice softer now. "Because real trust isn't built by pretending the past didn't happen. It's built by facing it together, day by day, until it becomes something you can both carry without it weighing you down."
She waited, letting that sink in, then added gently:
"So, if October agrees, we'll begin. And if not today, then whenever you're ready. But remember: the work won't erase the hurt. What it can do is make space for something honest, gentler, and new to grow in its place."
*********
The ride home was quiet.
We have this routine: we go to therapy together, and then drive home together. Usually, we talk a little about the session, about the kids, even something ordinary just to break the tension.
But this time, neither of us spoke. My hand stayed on the wheel, but my mind wasn't really on the road. Every so often, I glanced over at October, quick, careful, like I was afraid she might disappear if I looked too long. The evening light made her hairlook softer, almost golden at the edges, and for a second I could almost see us as we used to be.
When we finally pulled into the driveway and stepped out of the car, I reached into the back seat and took out a small wooden box I'd been hiding there all afternoon, waiting, heart pounding, for the right moment to give it to her.
