Miley was doing great. I was happy for her, but also jealous of the fact she could escape this place so easily, no looking back and no worries about her future.
I’d considered purchasing my own apartment to hide out in but knew Roland would come looking for me, demanding me to get rid of it and come back to the house. Right after Hawaii, he took me off as a primary account holder with his bank and changed all of his card numbers so I couldn’t go on shopping sprees whenever I wanted, like before. If I wanted something, I had to ask him . . . and after what’d happened, I never wanted to talk to him again, so that left me with nothing.
I could’ve stayed with Miley, but I didn’t want her questioning why I wanted to be away from home. If she were to ask, I was sure I would’ve spilled everything and I didn’t want that. She’d fallen in love with Dylan and I had betrayed her. I had enough truths out in the open to face. I didn’t need to lose my sister too. She was all I had left and this wouldn’t have been the first time I’d thrown her under the bus. I couldn’t keep bringing her into my problems again. So, there I was. Feeling stuck. Hopeless. Feeling like I deserved to be exactly where I was.
“Are you okay, Mrs. Graham?” Yadira asked me one day, placing my breakfast in front of me.
I blinked, not even realizing I’d been staring through the glass of one of the double doors, at the pergola.
I looked down at my plate of eggs, avocado, and strawberries, then up at Yadira, who was giving me a concerned stare. “No, Yadira. I’m not.”
Yadira studied my face carefully, then pulled out the seat to my left and sat. “I couldn’t help noticing you and Mr. Graham don’t have dinner together anymore when he’s home.”
“Yeah.” I picked up the fork and shuffled the eggs around.
“Is everything okay?”
“It’s not . . . but it doesn’t matter.” I forced a smile and looked her in the eye.
“Of course it matters. You don’t look well.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing at all.
Yadira pushed out of her chair and went around the corner to the mudroom. When she returned, she sat in the chair again and placed a white card down on the table. I read the words, Walden Counseling.
“You should go and see Dr. Walden,” said Yadira. “He’s a nice man. Very understanding. He listens and gives great advice.” She placed a hand on my shoulder. “Please, Mrs. Graham. Go and visit him. He saved my life. Maybe he can save yours too.”
“Saved your life?” I asked. “How?”
“Before this job, I was in a really bad depression. I’d lost my mother and after her death, I felt like my life was going nowhere. I lost weight, just as you have. I stopped socializing, just as you have. I just wanted to curl up into a ball under a blanket and never come out of it.”
I pulled my gaze away. That was exactly how I felt, but I didn’t think anyone had noticed. Not only that, but I didn’t think I was depressed. Just in a rut. I also felt lonely. Anxious. Scared. But when I researched, sure enough, it all linked to depression and I didn’t know what to think of that. None of my family had ever believed in depression. We were always told we’d get over it, move past it—that we’d be okay. The way it went was if we kept moving forward or blocking the feelings and pretending the trauma never happened, then we’d be fine. But would we be? What if the trauma became too much to bear? What if the trauma was actually ruining everything good in your life?
I picked up the card, holding it between my forefinger and thumb.
“Think about it,” she murmured, standing again with a gentle smile gracing her lips. Then she went back to the stove to finish dinner for the night.
CHAPTER FIFTY
It felt strange sitting in the waiting room in front of Dr. Walden’s office. I had my Chanel bag in the middle of my lap and my cell phone in hand. I checked the time on my phone and it was seven minutes past my appointed time. I wanted to get up and leave right away—forget all about coming there.
I wasn’t crazy. Seeing a therapist was crazy. I remembered my mother always saying therapy was for the weak—that Black people and especially Black women didn’t need a therapist because we were strong.
According to my mother, Black women carried generations of burdens on our backs and were powerful for it. Fighting our tears. Fighting others’ battles. Having others step on our backs just so they can climb to the top. But why was it that in this moment, I felt weak? I felt broken down and like I couldn’t go on anymore, and if anyone were to step on my back again, I would break in half.