Chapter 6
The first therapy session felt like walking into a room where the walls could hear.
Dr. Elaine Porter had silver braids, soft eyes, and a voice that made it hard to lie.
I tried anyway.
She asked, “What brings you here?”
I said, “My stepmom was mean.”
Dad looked at me.
I looked at the rug.
Dr. Porter waited.
That was her trick.
Silence.
Eventually, I hated the silence enough to fill it.
“She locked me outside in the snow.”
Dr. Porter nodded.
“That sounds terrifying.”
I shrugged.
“It was cold.”
“Cold can be terrifying.”
My throat tightened.
Dad sat beside me, hands clasped, looking like he wanted to confess to every mistake he had ever made.
Dr. Porter asked him, “What was it like finding her?”
Dad’s face changed.
“I thought she was dead.”
I looked up.
He swallowed.
“When I opened the shed, she was curled up under a tarp. Her lips were blue. She tried to tell me she was okay.”
His voice broke.
“She always tells me she’s okay.”
I looked down.
Dr. Porter said softly, “Nia, why do you think you do that?”
I twisted my sleeve.
“Because if I’m okay, nobody fights.”
Dad made a sound like he had been hit.
Dr. Porter let that sit.
Then she said, “A child should not have to be the weather report for a home.”
I didn’t fully understand.
But Dad started crying.
I had seen my father cry three times in my life.
At Mom’s funeral.
When Grandma died.
And now, in a therapist’s office, because I said I was okay.
After therapy, we sat in his truck.
Neither of us moved.
Finally, Dad said, “I am going to mess this up sometimes.”
“Probably.”
He laughed through tears.
“Thanks.”
“But you’re trying.”
“I am.”
“I am too.”
“I know.”
That became our new thing.
Trying.
Not perfect.
Not fixed.
Trying.
Brenda tried to contact me through Instagram two weeks later.
A new account.
No profile picture.
Message:
Your father is destroying our marriage because you couldn’t follow one rule.
I stared at it until my fingers went numb.
Then I showed Dad.
His face went dark.
But he didn’t explode.
He took a breath.
“Thank you for showing me.”
“You’re not mad?”
“At you? No.”
He screenshot it, sent it to his lawyer, and helped me block the account.
That violation helped in court.
Brenda was ordered not to contact me directly or indirectly.
She rolled her eyes in the hearing.
The judge saw.
Bad choice.
Temporary protective order granted.
Dad squeezed my hand under the table.
At home, we made a rule list.
Not Brenda rules.
Our rules.
1. Nobody gets locked out.
2. Nobody uses Mom as a weapon.
3. No silent punishments.
4. If someone says “pause,” the argument pauses.
5. Porch light stays on.
I wrote the last one.
Dad looked at it for a long time.
May you like
Then nodded.
“Always.”
