Later that night, I found myself sitting out in the yard in my car, drinking a bottle of liquor. The dash lights glowed low, clock blinking, engine off, but the keys still in the ignition, like I hadn't decided what I was doing yet. The house sat right in front of me, dark except for one light on upstairs. I was honestly dreading going inside the house and dealing with the turmoil it was in. Everything felt louder in there. Every look. Every silence. Every door opening or closing like it meant something. Out here, in the car, I could breathe without being asked to explain myself.
I'd be a coward to walk away, follow up with that divorce lawyer, and give myself an out to this shit. I knew that. Running had never sat right with me. I stayed when shit got ugly. Stayed when it cost me. Stayed when it would've been easier to disappear. That was the wrong thing to do. Easier though. One hundred percent.
I tilted the bottle back and chugged the rest of it, the burn settling heavy in my chest. Didn't savor it. Didn't pace myself. Just wanted it gone. Wanted something to dull the edge without opening anything up.
I slipped into the house quiet, locking the door behind me out of habit. It was quiet and smelled clean. Too clean. Like Nia had scrubbed the day away the same way she always did when shit got overwhelming. Counters wiped. Floors swept. Everything in its place, like order, could keep chaos from coming back. I peeked in each door, one by one. Juelz sprawled out, mouth open, one arm hanging off the bed. Jezel curled up tight, blanket pulled to her chin. Julise turned away from the door, back stiff even in her sleep. I stood there a second longer than I needed to, then moved on.
When I made it to the bedroom, I could hear the shower running. Water steady. Relentless. Same rhythm. I knew she'd be in there longer than usual. That's how she cried when she didn't want nobody to hear it. I kicked my shoes off and laid back on the bed staring up at the ceiling. Same spot I'd stared at so many nights before everything fell apart. Fan spinning slow. Shadows moving across the walls.
I heard the shower cut off and the bathroom door open. I sat up at the edge of the bed, watching her walk across the room, wrapped in her towel. I watched her start to dry herself off. She watched me through the mirror, her facial expression never changing. It was like I felt lust flowing through my veins.
I stood up, staggering over to where she was. I pushed her up against the dresser, swiping away the lotion and perfume that was sitting there. I watched her facial expression go from blank to lustful, matching mine. I grabbed her by the back of her neck, roughing her up, bending her over the dresser. I dropped my pants and slid my dick in her, groaning. I watched her bite her lip in the mirror as she had her eyes closed.
I stroked her roughly, grunting out, and she matched me stroke for stroke. I gripped tightly on the back of my neck asI sped up my pace, drilling her shit from behind, making her yelp out. I slapped her ass three times in a row before her body started shaking.
We ended up in the bed, me laying on my back, her with her back turned to me snoring.
NIA
I pulled the shades off my face, dropping them in the cup holder. The sound felt loud in the quiet of the car. I stared through the windshield at the small, pastel yellow colored building that sat back from the parking lot, flowers lining the walkway like somebody had put real thought into making the place look soft. It was inviting, like pain was supposed to feel welcome here.
I'd just dropped the kids off at school before pulling up here. Same routine. Same hugs. Same reminders shouted through the cracked window. I waited until their figures disappeared into the building before I let myself sit still. The engine idled. My chest felt tight, like something was pressing down on me, familiar enough that I didn't bother trying to push it off. This was how most mornings felt now, like I was carrying the day before it even started.
I sighed heavy, long. I was already tired, and it felt like the day hadn't asked for anything yet. I didn't know what the hell I was doing here. Therapy had always felt like something for people who had time to fall apart. I didn't have that luxury. I had kids. A house. A husband who was home but not really here. Still, I opened the door. The air outside was cool against my skin as I walked up the path, my steps slow, measured. I noticed the flowers, they were pink, white, and some kind of purple I didn't know the name of. Somebody watered them regularly. Somebody made sure they stayed alive.
Inside, the receptionist smiled like she didn't know me, like she didn't know how heavy I was carrying myself. I gave my name, filled out the clipboard without really reading what I was signing, then took a seat in the waiting area. The chairs weresoft. I crossed my legs, uncrossed them. Folded my hands in my lap. Unfolded them. My phone buzzed once, nothing important, and I turned it face down like I always did when I didn't want to be reached.
I didn't know what the hell I was doing here, but I figured it was time to try something different. That thought surprised me. Different had always scared me. Different meant things shifted. People changed. Structures cracked. I'd built my whole life on keeping things together, on being dependable, predictable, strong. I wasn't sure what would happen if I were to stop doing that.
"Nia."
My name sounded strange coming from someone else's mouth in this place. I stood and followed her down the hallway, past closed doors, past muted voices and low music humming through the walls. The hallway felt narrow, like it was guiding me somewhere I hadn't planned on going. Three doors down, she opened one and motioned for me to step inside.
The room smelled warm, like pumpkin spice, something soft and comforting that immediately made my throat tighten. The walls were decorated in different shades of nudes, calm colors that didn't ask you to be anything. A couch sat against one wall, two chairs across from it, and a small table in between. A woman stood behind the desk. She was tall, wore her hair in a short bob, and dressed neatly in office attire. She looked put together in a way that felt intentional.
"I'm Teresa," she said, offering a smile. "I'll be your therapist."
The word sat between us. I nodded, returning the smile automatically. I took the seat she pointed to, smoothing myhands over my jeans like I needed something to do with them. She sat across from me, notebook resting on her knee. "So," she said gently, "what brings you in today?"
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. I stared at the wall behind her instead, my eyes tracing the lines in the paint, the soft edges where color met color. I could talk about the kids. About Julise sneaking out. About Jules and I barely speaking unless we were arguing or touching. I could talk about being tired. What I couldn't talk about was the empty space that followed me everywhere. The way grief had settled into my routines like it belonged there. The way I washed dishes and folded clothes and signed school papers while carrying something heavy I never put down. "I don't really know how to start," I finally said. If I started talking, I wasn't sure where I would stop.
"That's okay," she replied. "We can start wherever you want."
I nodded again, swallowing. I thought about Juliana, and the way her name still got caught in my chest. Memories of how I avoided her room unless I absolutely had to flashed in my mind. How I never said her name out loud unless somebody else said it first. I thought about Jules. Sitting in the same house, sleeping in the same bed, feeling like a stranger, I still knew how to take care of. Loving him in ways that didn't require words because words felt too dangerous. Dangerous because once you say something out loud, you can't pull it back. You can't pretend you didn't feel it. You can't hide behind routine anymore. "You know we all make mistakes, right?" I said. "But some mistakes..." I trailed off. My fingers twisted together in my lap without me realizing it. "We just can't take back or bury," I said. Saying it made my chest feel tight, like the room got smaller. Like the air shifted.
"You can say that mistakes are a part of life," she said, nodding her head.
I stared at the wall again. At the soft colors. At how intentional everything felt in this room. Like someone expected people to come in here broken and stay long enough to start putting themselves back together. "That sound nice," I said quietly. "But some mistakes don't just sit there. They move in. They take up space. They show up in your kids. In your marriage. In how you wake up every morning. They don’t leave, they just learn to live beside you." I swallowed. "I don't wake up without thinking about it," I added, my voice steady even though my stomach felt hollow. "I don't go to sleep without replaying shit I wish I'd done different." I didn't say her name. I never did unless I absolutely had to.
Teresa didn't push. Didn't rush to fill the silence. She just watched me and actually listened to me, not waiting for her turn to talk. She let me fill the space. "I still get up," I continued. "I still cook, clean, take kids to school, sign papers, make sure everybody else okay. I still do what I'm supposed to do." That part came out firm. Certain. Because that was the truth.
"What happens when you stop doing?" she asked gently. "What's left for you?"
I opened my mouth and quickly closed it. I froze because I didn't have an answer. That was scarier than anything id realized in this room so far. My eyes dropped to my hands. I noticed the faint scar on my knuckle I couldn't remember getting. The way my nails were trimmed short because long ones got in the way of work. Of life. "I don't really know," I admitted. "I never stopped long enough to find out." I thought about the house. About how quiet it felt even when everybody was home. About Jules sitting beside me in silence that felt thicker than any argument we'dever had. About how I could still read him, still anticipate his needs, still move around him like memory. But I couldn't reach him. And I wasn't sure he wanted to be reached. "I been loyal a long time," I said instead. "Not just to him. To everybody. To the life I built. To the version of me that learned early on that love meant staying." That word lingered.
Teresa shifted slightly in her chair. "And what does staying cost you?"
I hesitated. My throat tightened. I thought about how tired I was. Not just in my body, but in my spirit. How heavy everything felt even on days nothing went wrong. How I avoided certain rooms in my own house. How I folded grief into my routines so neat nobody ever questioned it. "I don't know how to imagine a future that don't look like my past," I finally said. "And that make me feel guilty as hell."