Chapter 8 - The Mirror of Truth
Dr. Elena Morrison’s office smelled of eucalyptus and aged paper. It was located on the third floor of a converted brick mill in downtown York, far removed from the sterile suburbs and the suffocating expectations of the Lewis family dinners.
Brian sat on the opposite end of the gray linen sofa, his fingers interlaced so tightly his knuckles were white. I sat with my posture rigid, my nursing pads hidden beneath a structured blazer, my eyes fixed on the therapist.
“Let’s start with the joke, Brian,” Dr. Morrison said, adjusting her glasses. She was a woman in her late fifties with sharp, perceptive gray eyes that gave no quarter to casual deflections. “Tell me what you were trying to achieve at that dinner table.”
Brian stared at the woven rug between his feet. “I wanted to make the family laugh,” he mumbled. “My uncles, Derek, Frank... dinner at my mom’s house is always loud. You have to be quick, you have to be funny, or you get run over. My dad always commanded the room with teasing.”
“And what was the currency you used to buy that laughter?” Dr. Morrison asked.
Brian flinched. “Katherine.”
“Her body,” Dr. Morrison corrected gently but firmly. “Specifically, the physical evidence of her labor. The evidence that she gave birth to your children six weeks prior. Why was that the weapon you chose?”
Brian took a shuddering breath. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving once before he spoke. “Because she looked different. Because she looked vulnerable, and I didn't know how to handle it.”
I turned my head toward him, stunned by the admission.
“What do you mean, you didn't know how to handle it?” I asked, my voice rising.
Brian looked up at me, his eyes rimmed with red. “Ever since the twins were born, you’ve been living in a world I can't touch, Kate. You’re in pain, you’re feeding them, your body is completely consumed by keeping them alive. You don't look at me the way you used to. You flinch when I touch you because you’re sore. I felt... I felt completely useless. And instead of admitting that I felt disconnected and terrified by how much everything had changed, I treated your recovery like a spectacle. I made you the punchline so I wouldn't have to feel small.”
The air in the room grew heavy and still.
“You made me the punchline so you wouldn't feel small,” I repeated, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. “And in doing so, Brian, you taught your daughter that a woman’s worth shrinks the moment her body shows the scars of love. You taught her that the man who is supposed to protect her will throw her to the wolves for a laugh from Uncle Frank.”
“I know,” Brian whispered, the tears running freely down his jaw. “Seeing Emma hide under that table... seeing her look at her own stomach like it was a monster... it made me physically sick. I saw my father in myself. I saw every dinner where he made my mother cry while we all pretended it was just good fun.”
Dr. Morrison leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Insight is meaningless without transformation, Brian. You have apologized, but apologies are cheap words. What are you going to do to dismantle the culture of cruelty you brought into your home?”
Brian looked at me, his gaze pleading not for forgiveness, but for an opportunity to prove he could change. “Whatever it takes. Tell me what to do, Kate. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
May you like
I adjusted my blazer, looking at him with clear, unclouded eyes. “Sunday dinner is coming up again in two weeks. That is where this started. That is where it has to end.”
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