“I need you to let Michael live his own life,” I said.
“I know.”
“And I need you not to make me responsible for protecting him from every uncomfortable feeling.”
“I know.”
“He is allowed to be disappointed.”
“Yes.”
“He is allowed to feel insecure.”
“Yes.”
“He is allowed to hear no.”
Linda smiled faintly.
“You sound like Dr. Patel.”
“Who?”
“My therapist.”
“You’re seeing a therapist?”
“Michael suggested it.”
“Did he change your locks first?”
Linda stared at me. When we left the café, Linda hugged me.
“I don’t expect everything to go back to normal.”
“Good.”
“I think normal was part of the problem.”
By December, Michael had moved back into our bedroom. One night we watched television too late, and he fell asleep beside me. Trust didn’t return in a grand moment. Michael told me when he was embarrassed instead of converting embarrassment into anger. I admitted when work was swallowing me before I disappeared into it. We reviewed finances once a month. Not because I distrusted him. Then, in January, Michael came home carrying a thin blue folder.
