Chapter 10: Healing Isn’t Linear
409 Words
It had been a good week. Not perfect, but better.
Tahlia had begun to feel the smallest shift—not just in Marcus, but in herself. The little space she’d carved out in their bedroom had become a quiet retreat. A haven. Some nights she colored. Some nights she curled up with her blanket and drank warm milk while Marcus brushed her hair or read her a few pages from a children’s book.
It was gentle. Clumsy at times, but full of heart.
But healing, she was learning, wasn’t a straight path.
The argument started over something stupid—leftover pizza, of all things. Damon had eaten the last slice, Marcus was already in a mood, and before long, voices were raised. Tahlia told him to stop barking orders. Marcus snapped back, “Maybe if you acted like an adult instead of hiding in your little corner every night, we wouldn’t be having this problem.”
The words hit her like a slap.
She froze. Her cheeks flushed with heat, her stomach twisted. That tiny, soft part of her shrank instantly—curled up, quiet and hurt. She walked away. Not slamming doors. Not yelling. Just… gone.
She didn’t come out of the bedroom that night.
Marcus didn’t follow.
The next day passed in silence. He was out of the house early, and she went through the motions like a ghost. Kids. Dishes. Work. Smile. Numb.
That evening, after the kids were in bed and she sat on her rug, clutching her stuffed bear like a lifeline, the door creaked open.
It was Marcus.
He didn’t speak right away. He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands over his jeans.
“I said something I didn’t mean,” he finally said, voice tight. “And I’m sorry.”
Tahlia looked at him, tears in her eyes.
“I know I don’t fully get this yet,” he said, his voice cracking. “But I see how much it matters to you. And I never want to be the reason you feel ashamed for needing care.”
She didn’t answer. Just opened the blanket a little wider.
He crossed the room, knelt beside her, and crawled in.
They sat like that in silence, side by side, her head resting on his shoulder, his hand in hers.
Healing wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t always pretty. But it was real.
And real, she realized, was better than perfect any day.
- Writer
