Page 223 of Tell Me I'm Enough

Mason

It’s been a week since I vandalized my dad’s building, a week since I’ve seen or spoken to him, a week of silence and no repercussions.

I guess that’s why I’m not surprised when I walk into the kitchen this morning and find an envelope sitting on the counter with my name on it.

He figured he just wanted to take the time to conjure up the best way to punish me. What I didn’t figure wasthisbeing the route he decided to take.

I stare at the single page and read it again.

Therapy begins tomorrow at 10 a.m.

You will attend twice a week while you’re home. Once you return to Texas, I’ve arranged continued sessions.

Consider this your payment for the damages you caused.

No conversation. No asking what’s really going on. No wanting to mend this fucked-up relationship between us—nothing. Just more business—his image, my image—that in turn is stillhisimage.

I crumple the paper in my fist until it’s a ball and then throw it across the room.

Rose walks in behind me, heels clicking against the hardwood floors.

She pauses when she sees my face. “Mason…”

I look down. “Don’t.”

She sighs, like dealing with me and him is exhausting to her. “Your father is trying to help you.”

“He’s trying to help himself,” I mutter.

If he wanted to help, he’d be a better dad.

“He’s giving you an opportunity,” she presses. “Do you know how many people would be grateful for—”

I cut her off, voice sharp and annoyed now. “If you say one more thing, I’m gonna lose whatever respect I’ve ever forced myself to have for you.”

Her mouth tightens, and we just stare at each other for a moment. Then she turns and walks away without saying anything else.

I stand there in the quiet kitchen, leaning against the counter with the empty envelope in my hand still, trying to understand why this is the life I got handed.

I got up this early to go on a run, not to get spat in the face with having to go to therapy required by a man who needs it more than anyone else.

* * *

Therapy is pretty much exactly what I expected—a place made to make you feel comfortable enough to get you to spill all your trauma to some stranger.

My therapist is a woman in her forties, maybe. Her dark, black hair is always pulled back in a slick ponytail that looks like it hurts. She has this calming presence, I assume is a job requirement, and she always has her notebook on her lap, ready to write down anything I say that can tell her what’s wrong with me.

I’ve already been here a few times, and probably have said all of ten sentences total to her.

I don’t have anything to talk about.

I don’twantto be here.

I don’t need this.

I don’t need therapy.

What is it gonna do? Magically make me be okay with having a shitty father who has never loved me? Magically erase all the fucked up things that have happened in my life? Magically give me back a childhood I never got to experience?