Chapter 7 - THE THINGS WE HAD BEEN CALLING GRIEF
Therapy was terrible.
That was unanimous.
Roman went first and spent two sessions lying.
Theo sat silently through his first.
Jamie brought three toy dinosaurs.
I told mine I didn't need therapy.
She wrote something down.
I hated her immediately.
Dad tried to reschedule his first appointment twice.
Eleanor blocked both.
I would have paid money to hear those conversations.
Slowly, things changed.
Roman admitted he'd been stealing small amounts of money from Dad.
Not because he needed it.
Because he wanted proof Dad wouldn't notice.
He hadn't.
That hurt more than punishment would have.
Theo finally told us about Mason.
And about dozens of messages he'd deleted because he thought asking for help meant proving our family was weak.
Wonder where he learned that.
Jamie admitted he sometimes broke things at night because the sound made people come.
That one nearly destroyed Dad.
I admitted fighting made me feel useful.
If somebody else was bleeding, I didn't have to think about Mom.
The therapist asked:
“And when there isn't someone to fight?”
I didn't answer.
She waited.
Eventually:
“I don't know who I'm supposed to be.”
There.
That was the real problem.
Not heir.
Not oldest son.
Not future Cavanaugh boss.
Me.
Dad's changes were less dramatic.
More important.
He came home Tuesday nights.
Always.
Phones went into a drawer during dinner.
The first Tuesday, Roman said:
“This is creepy.”
By week four, everybody planned around it.
Dad missed week seven because one of his warehouses had a fire.
But this time he called himself.
Not an assistant.
Jamie answered.
Dad said:
“I can't make dinner.”
Jamie was quiet.
Then:
“Next Tuesday?”
“Yes.”
“You promise?”
Dad looked at us through the video screen.
“Yes.”
He kept it.
That was how trust returned.
May you like
Not speeches.
Tuesday dinners.
