The Second Session

Daniel sat down again, certain he had nothing left to say. The first session had been small talk. This one, he decided, would be the same.

"Last week you mentioned your father," the therapist said. "You changed the subject quickly."

"Did I?" He shifted. The truth was that he felt ambivalent about even being here — half grateful, half convinced this was a waste of an afternoon. Two feelings, pulling opposite ways, and he couldn't decide which was honest.

"You said he was angry," she went on. "But your hands clenched when you said it."

"He was angry," Daniel insisted. Then he paused. Maybe that was projection — maybe he was the angry one, and he'd been quietly painting his own fury onto a dead man because it was easier than owning it.

The therapist let the silence stretch. "What happens when you think about him now?"

"Nothing." But that wasn't true either. What happened was rumination — the same three memories looping at 2 a.m., chewed over and over until they lost all shape and still wouldn't let him sleep.

"For years you've practiced repression," she said gently. "Pushing it down so far you forgot it was there. The body keeps the receipts, though."

Something in his chest tightened, then cracked. He hadn't cried at the funeral. He hadn't cried in a decade. Now, absurdly, in a beige office on a Tuesday, his eyes burned.

"It's okay," she said.

And it came — not neat, not dignified, but real. The catharsis he'd avoided his whole adult life arrived in twenty messy minutes, an emotional release that left him hollowed out and strangely lighter.

When it passed, he wiped his face and laughed once, embarrassed.

"Same time next week?" she asked.

Daniel nodded. This time he meant it.