THE TRANSFER

CHAPTER EIGHT- THERAPY

Therapy was not gentle.

It dismantled the lies first.

I spoke about being unseen, about relief disguised as love, about obsession pretending to care

The therapist never absolved me. She didn’t offer redemption or forgiveness. She named me instead ,named my patterns, my choices, she called my rationalizations what they were, permission slips. She reminded me that loneliness explains behavior, but it does not excuse it. Each session left me exposed, stripped of the stories I had built to survive myself.

Outside those rooms, life continued with unnerving calm. Kunle moved through the house like a man completing a task he had already finished internally. He demanded nothing. He did not accuse. He did not ask for explanations. His restraint felt heavier than anger ever could. Sometimes I caught him standing in doorways, distant, as if memorizing a place he would soon forget.

When the divorce papers arrived, they felt less like a shock and more like confirmation. The ending had been written long before the ink touched the page. Kunle signed without a word, his pen steady, There were no final conversations, no last attempts at understanding, no shared grief over what had been lost.

Silence was how our marriage ended. Not with cruelty or confrontation, but with a quiet decisiveness that left no room for appeal. In that stillness, I learned the hardest truth of all, some endings do not wound loudly they close, leaving you alone with the damage and the knowledge that it cannot be undone.