Page 37 of The Write Choice

“Feels like homework,” I grumble.

Nora laughs deeply. It’s a rich sound, one that makes me smile, too. She tilts her head at me. “If it helps you to think of it as an assignment, so be it. I want to hear about your efforts next time.” She checks her watch. “We have about five minutes left. I wanted to ask—”

“I haven’t had a drink,” I cut her off. I hate this part, even though it’s why I started seeing her in the first place.

Nora regards me for a second, then nods curtly, making a note in her notepad. Not a total failure, maybe. Then, she looks at me. “Anything else for today, Katie?”

I shake my head.

She pauses for a moment, then says, “Keep an open mind. You aren’t doomed to repeat the past.”

I consider her words, then meet her eyes on the screen and nod once.

She smiles, and we wrap up just as I hear Brandon and the kids come storming down the stairs, Christine and Mason complaining that they’re hungry for dinner. I stare at my blank screen for a few minutes, giving myself some extra time to decompress after that session, then sigh as I snap it shut and get ready to be Mom again.

I open the door to the living area and exit slowly. I can already feel my shoulders slumping and my eyes glazing over. They always tell you self-care is important, and therapy is part of that. What they don’t acknowledge is how everything still needs to get done after you take care of yourself. And, often, when you spend an hour on a video call with your therapist, dinner gets pushed back, then bath time and bedtime get a little later. Before you know it, you’re just as exhausted as you were before you “took care of yourself” and are left with no other free time to do anything else.

In short, self-care is bullshit.

At least, that’s what I always thought, even though I recognized the power that therapy had in my life. I was willing to sacrifice time for a conversation with someone who saw my issues and didn’t shy away from them. Someone I could be completely honest with and who wouldn’t judge me for my worst moments.

But when I leave my studio and see Brandon in black joggers and a faded old cotton t-shirt that says Kiss me, I’m Irish and the kids standing on stools around the island starting to prepare dinner, I think maybe self-care can work if you’ve got other people to get things started for you.

“What’s this?” I ask, walking toward them. There is flour everywhere—and I mean everywhere—and balls of dough in front of each kid.

Brandon looks up at me and smiles tentatively. “I stopped at the store on my way home. I thought it’d be fun to make pizzas tonight.” He looks hopeful and excited.

Mason grins at me, a dash of flour grazing his cheek. “I’m going to put green peppers on mine,” he says proudly.

“You are?” I don’t believe him for one second. This kid avoids vegetables like the plague.

He nods, though, his chest puffed out.

“I like cheese,” Christine says, though she’s still having trouble pronouncing her L’s, so it comes out more like “I wike cheese.” She takes the red plastic rolling pin she’s holding and pounds it on the dough in front of her.

“Oh, honey, that’s not how you do it. Here, let me show you.” I move around to the side of the island to stand next to her.

“No! I do it,” she yells, clutching the rolling pin to her chest. I raise my hands in surrender. Never mind, then.

Brandon chuckles, and I eye him sidelong. He has a strange look on his face, but when I pinch my brows in question, he just shakes his head and hands me a ball of dough.

“I know we just had pizza last week, but is this okay?” he asks.

I take the dough from him and squeeze it between my fingers. The feel of it is totally satisfying. Mason reaches over and helps Christine flatten out more of her dough, and she copies his motions exactly.

The whole scene is so damn sweet. It’s a picture-perfect family moment. My heart almost bursts in my chest, and my fingers practically itch to paint it. I decide I’m going to, after the kids go to bed.

“The addition of green peppers makes it an entirely different meal,” I tease.

I look up at Brandon, and I can’t help the smile on my face from growing. It feels almost foreign, my cheek muscles engaging in a way they haven’t in a while. He grins right back.

“Seriously,” I say. “This is great.”

Chapter 11

Brandon

When I came home from the store with supplies to make pizza, I thought I was a damn genius. Turns out, that stuff only works on the internet. The kids’ pizzas are a disaster. Mason insists on topping his with green peppers, and when he goes to take a bite, he freaks out about the vegetables being on it. He also won’t let us pick them off. Christine demands more and more sauce on her pizza, going as far as a mini-meltdown on the kitchen floor when we try to tell her she won’t like it. Katie shrugs, says she’ll do anything to stop the screaming, and helps her ladle sauce onto the crust. It comes out of the oven a sopping mess.