Chapter 6: The First Session
909 Words
Daniel’s POV
The leather chair creaks as I shift my weight. Dr. Bennett’s notebook lies open in her lap, her pen uncapped but motionless.
“You said last time that you don’t know how to fix things,” she says. “Tell me what ‘fixed’ looks like to you.”
I rub my palms against my knees. “Ava comes home. We go back to normal.”
Dr. Bennett tilts her head. “Was ‘normal’ working for her?”
The question stings. I think of Ava’s silent dinners, her flinches when I raised my voice, the way she stopped arguing back over the years.
“I didn’t hit her,” I say quietly.
“Abuse isn’t just physical, Daniel.”
The word abuse lands like a slap. My throat tightens. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—”
“Let’s try something.” Dr. Bennett sets down her pen. “Describe a recent argument from Ava’s perspective.”
I close my eyes. The last fight plays in my mind—Ava’s hesitant suggestion about Sophie’s teacher, my immediate dismissal, the way her face shuttered when I said overreacting.
“She’d say I didn’t listen,” I admit. “That I made her feel small.”
Dr. Bennett nods. “And how would you feel if someone treated you that way?”
I swallow hard.
For the first time, I see myself through Ava’s eyes—and I don’t like what I see.
Ava’s POV
The apartment echoes with every step.
I set down the first box labeled Sophie’s Room and stare at the bare walls. This will be her space now. Half her life spent between two homes, two beds, two sets of rules.
My phone rings. Daniel’s name flashes on the screen.
I hesitate before answering. “Hey.”
“Hey.” His voice is rough. “I, uh. I wanted to ask before scheduling—is Saturday okay for the zoo with Sophie? I can pick her up at nine.”
No demands. No guilt. Just a question.
“Saturday’s fine,” I say.
Silence stretches between us. Then, so quiet I almost miss it:
“I started therapy.”
My breath catches. “I know. Dr. Bennett texted me.”
Another pause. “I’m sorry, Ava.”
Three words. No excuses attached.
Tears prick my eyes. “Thank you for telling me.”
We hang up. The apartment feels less empty.
Sophie’s POV
Daddy’s acting weird.
He asks questions he never asked before. How was school today? What’s your favorite color this week? Do you like your new room at Mommy’s apartment?
At the zoo, he doesn’t look at his phone once. He holds my hand the whole time, even when I swing our arms really high.
When we see the gorillas, I tell him they’re sad in cages.
Daddy gets quiet. Then he kneels down and says, “You’re right. They belong in the jungle.”
I don’t know what that means, but he hugs me extra tight.
Daniel’s POV
The support group meets in a church basement.
Folding chairs. Bad coffee. A circle of men avoiding eye contact.
“I’m Daniel,” I say when it’s my turn. “I’m here because... I hurt my wife. Not with my hands. With my words. My indifference.” My voice cracks. “I didn’t see it until she left.”
Across the circle, a man with a beard nods. “Welcome, Daniel.”
For the first time in months, I don’t feel alone.
Ava’s POV
Sophie’s first night in the new apartment, she cries.
“I want my pink blanket! The one at Daddy’s house!”
I rock her in my arms, my heart breaking. “We’ll get you a new one tomorrow, baby.”
“But I want that one!”
I text Daniel before I can think better of it: Any chance you could drop off Sophie’s pink blanket?
His reply is instant: On my way.
Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rings. Daniel stands on the doorstep, the blanket folded neatly in his arms. Up close, I notice the shadows under his eyes.
“Thanks,” I say softly.
He nods. “How is she?”
“Homesick.”
His jaw tightens. Not with anger—with guilt. “I’m sorry.”
Sophie comes running. “Daddy!”
He scoops her up, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Hey, kiddo. Brought your blanket.”
Watching them, something shifts in my chest.
This man is trying.
And that changes everything.
Daniel’s POV
Dr. Bennett gives me homework: List three things Ava did for you that you never thanked her for.
1. Made my coffee every morning exactly how I like it.
2. Handled all the bills because I ‘hated paperwork.’
3. Stayed quiet when I snapped at her so I wouldn’t feel bad.
The last one makes me nauseous.
I text Ava: Can we talk? Just us.
Her reply takes an hour: Okay.
We meet at a park bench halfway between our places. She wears a sweater I’ve never seen before. Her hair is longer.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.”
We sit in silence for a full minute before I speak.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For everything.”
Ava looks at me—really looks—for the first time in years. “I know.”
It’s not forgiveness.
But it’s a start.
- Writer
