Page 66 of October
"Maybe?"
"It sounds ridiculous."
"It's not ridiculous," she said, gently but firmly. "It'slearned. Conditioned patterns don't make you ridiculous—they make you human. But they also keep you small."
I sat with that, the air in my chest tight.
"Do you want love or do you want approval?" she asked quietly.
I looked up at her, stung by the question but knowing it mattered. "I don't know."
"That's okay," she said. "Most people don't at first. But the work is learning to recognize the difference. Approval is conditional. Love isn't."
I felt something crack inside me, slow and quiet, like ice breaking underfoot.
In the evening, I went back home feeling more confused and raw than I wanted to admit. It's strange, how painful it is to sit in front of someone and untangle yourself, to actually see the shape of your own patterns instead of just running past them. It's hard, really hard, to come to terms with who you are. The parts you hide. The flaws you pretend aren't there because, ifthey are, maybe that's why you're alone. The places where you've shaped yourself to fit other people's comfort. It felt like peeling back layers of myself only to realize I didn't even like what was underneath. I tossed my bag on the chair and reached for my phone. Notifications stacked on the lock screen like quiet reminders that life was still happening, whether I wanted it to or not.
Several messages from Thomas.
Thomas [4:58 PM]:I'm with the kids at the park. Hope that's okay.
Thomas [5:12 PM]:I already cooked dinner. I will bring it with me from my appartment.
Thomas [5:30 PM]:I'll have them home before seven. Let me know if you need anything.
He was doing that a lot now, sending these careful updates like he was reporting to someone holding a clipboard, like I might mark him down for being late or forgetting something. I just answered his message with a plainNo thank you. It sounded cold. Detached. But I was anything but. I was fraying at the edges, held together by muscle memory, by the act of pressing send and pretending that was control.
I stepped inside the house and was met with the soft, familiar hum ofhome, the faint scent of something cooking, pans rattling gently on the stove, and the steady thump of the washing machine turning over in the next room. Mom was stirring something at the stove, still wearing her reading glasses on her nose like she'd forgotten they were there, and Dad was folding laundry on the living room couch with the same military precision he used for everything. Socks rolled in perfect pairs. T-shirts squared off like blueprints.
I really don't know what I'd be doing without them.
Mom looked up first, brushing hair back behind her ear. "Hi, love," she said, soft, careful, like she could already sense something wasn't right. Dad spotted me next and gave that grin of his that always made me feel five years old again. "Finally. My serotonin source has arrived. Don't argue, I'm sensitive."
But then he must've seen something shift in my face, the too-wide eyes, the way I was holding my own arms and his expression changed. Still warm, but serious under the surface.
He stepped forward, leaving a half-folded towel behind him,"Yep, this is a Code Red: Hug Required Immediately. Good thing I'm qualified." I let out a weak laugh as he lifted me up a little. "The official certificate's hanging on my wall. Bears signed it. Very formal."
He kept his arms around me. "C'mon, bug. I'm right here. Talk to me."
That did it. The tears broke out of me in one sudden, humiliating rush. Mom came over then, wrapping her arms around both of us, and I just stood there sandwiched between them, crying like a child.
"I don't even know why I'm crying," I choked out.
Dad didn't even hesitate. "Because you're overhwhelmed, because you are human, sweetheart, and humans feel. That's the deal."
After a quiet moment, Mom . She reached behind a stack of neatly folded cloth napkins and brought something out. A bouquet. Not roses. Not anything neat or obvious. It was wild,almost unruly, branches of soft green mixed with pale blossoms and tiny white flowers, as if someone had gathered them by hand on a walk through an overgrown garden. It smelled clean, but earthy too. Like open windows on the first warm day of spring. Fresh. Alive. Untamed.
Then she set a small box next to it. Plain, tied with rough twine, nothing decorative, just practical, careful hands at work. Inside were small glass vials, samples of oils in pale golden and amber tones, each with little handwritten labels. Some smelled sweet, others sharp, a few warm and musky, and some crisp and green, like the air after rain. It wasn't polished. It wasn't professional. But it was deliberate.
"This came for you," she said gently. "Delivered while you were out."
The card was tucked awkwardly between the stems, his handwriting neat but slightly uneven like he'd tried harder than usual to make it look right.
"I know you used to leave me notes. All those years and I barely ever wrote back. I didn't know how. Still don't, honestly. Words don't come easy to me. But flowers... they speak. So I picked these for you. First bouquet of your garden. Thought maybe they could talk better than I can."
Underneath that, smaller:
"Vetiver, for grounding. You said once you felt like everything was slipping under your feet. I didn't know what to do about that. But then I remembered that afternoon one summer when Jimmy made that 'boat' out of couch cushions, And he kept yelling 'Captain Daddy!' until I climbed in. You had baby Alice asleep on your chest, and for a minute—it was all still. Youeven smiled at me, That's what grounding feels like to me. That moment."
