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I almost laughed.
Messy families.
I signed the contract.
Packing up my apartment felt like performing an autopsy on my life.
Books from college.
Sticky notes from exam prep.
Photos.
The photos hurt the most.
Christmas mornings with my brother front and center.
Me half cut off at the edge of the frame.
My face blurred midblink.
I realized that even in the evidence of my life, I was an afterthought.
I put most of those pictures in a box, taped it shut, and wrote one word on the lid.
Before.
I left it at the very back of the closet, like a body in a shallow grave.
When I emailed my parents to tell them I’d accepted a job out of state, I kept it clinical.
I’ll be busy settling in.
My mom replied with a thumbs up emoji and we’ll visit once things calm down.
My dad never answered.
In the new city, no one knew who I used to be.
On my first day at the clinic, I introduced myself to the receptionist as Dr. Madison Murphy, even though the court hadn’t stamped it yet.
The name sat awkwardly in my mouth for half a second, then settled.
It felt like finally wearing clothes that fit.
That’s where I met Ava.
She was the senior therapist assigned to supervise me.
A woman in her late 30s with tired eyes, a sharp tongue, and a way of listening that made silence feel less scary.
We worked long hours together, tag teaming crisis sessions, and doing endless paperwork.
One night after a brutal day with a client whose mother weaponized forgetting important events, Ava tossed her pen down and said, “It’s always the same. Parents swear they did their best. Then you see the kids sitting there picking up pieces no one admits they dropped. Something in me uncoiled.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Some of us could write a book about that.”
She studied me for a beat.
“You sound like experience talking, not theory.”
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