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Moving out of the St. Clairmont house and rehab center was a difficult decision, but a necessary one. It’s been two months since I last spoke with Seraphina. Leaving was extreme, but staying felt like falling into old patterns. I needed to stop sheltering myself and face the world again.
After an extensive search, I’m temporarily staying in Seattle. I have a team of counselors, physical and occupational therapists, and I can work in a studio with my brothers. The band is on hiatus—but they’re also done with my bullshit, and I don’t blame them. I was too tangled in my own demons to consider anyone else.
Today I’m in Dr. Cooperson’s office, all soothing earth tones and pictures of serene landscapes. As gentle music plays, I settle into the leather chair across from her.
“How are you today, Brahms?” Her dark gaze flits to my hand. “Any progress with your physical therapy?”
I flex my right hand, testing its mobility. “There’s some improvement. But not enough. I can play the drums, but when I try to play the piano I . . .” I sigh, unable to hide the frustration. “Dr. Farrow says I’m making progress. I’m just too fucking impatient.”
I rake my good hand through my hair. “Well, he didn’t call me fucking impatient. That’s all me. It’s just hard not to create music.”
“Recovery takes time, especially rebuilding fine motor skills. Be gentle with yourself.” She scribbles on her tablet. “And emotionally? You skipped Monday’s therapy. Something about having to be in London for your grandmother’s funeral.”
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I open my mouth and close it again, searching for the right words. “It was . . . manageable. I wasn’t especially close to Grandmother Poppy. But being there . . . my father and I barely exchanged a word.”
Dr. Cooperson tilts her head slightly, her perceptive eyes searching mine as if trying to uncover the layers beneath my words. “It was the first funeral I’ve attended in a long while. And it just . . . it brought back memories. Of all the people I’ve lost.”
“It’s understandable to feel that grief,” she says reassuringly. “But it’s also important to remember that it’s okay that you survived the plane accident.”
A heavy sigh escapes my lips, my shoulders dropping with the weight of my emotions. “I know that now. But it’s still tough. They had so much life left to live.” My fingers clench on the armrest. “And throughout the ceremony, anger just bubbled inside me. Anger at my father for never telling me about my children. But then I realize . . . I’ve been hiding just as much from him.”
Rubbing my temples, I try to keep the overwhelming rush of emotions at bay. The room feels smaller, the walls inching closer.
“Breathe, Brahms. You’re here, you’re safe, and it’s okay,” she reminds me gently.
“Why does everything have to be so fucking complicated?” I groan, my voice filled with exasperation. “So many lies, so many people just made up things that complicated my life even more. He could’ve told me that I was a father. I should’ve told him . . . It’s all so complicated.”
“Human nature,” she says, as if it’s that simple. “We have a long way to go in learning healthy communication. Words are so simple, yet we fail to use them correctly, overpowered by our emotions—fear, anger, shame. Those feelings often prevent us from doing what we know is right.”
She’s right. But how the hell do I push through the fog of my emotions and say what needs to be said? Memories from Grandmother Poppy’s funeral flash in my mind. The solemn faces, the whispered condolences, the way my father looked—so lost, so distant. I remember wanting to bridge that gap between us, to reach out.
“I wanted to tell Dad the truth, mend what’s broken between us,” I say, the weight of regret pressing on my chest. I pause, recalling the cold stone steps outside the funeral home where I sat, lost in thought, replaying every missed opportunity with him.
“Why didn’t you?”
Pulling in a deep breath, I answer, “I need to come clean to Seraphina first. She deserves to know everything.”
“Are you ready to confront her?” Dr. Cooperson asks, tapping her pen against her chin thoughtfully. “The last time we spoke, you mentioned that you weren’t ready to handle the responsibilities of being a father.”
It’s true, I did mention that fatherhood seemed unattainable—and daunting, but after reading so many books about it, I don’t see why I should wait. I give a wry half-smile. “No one’s ever truly ready to be a parent. At least Ewan and Aria are old enough that they can help me navigate this new role.”
As I speak, I wonder if I should bring up the dark thoughts I had while in London. The gnawing ache of the old craving wanting to come back. It threatened to pull me in again.
“The funeral,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper, “was a trigger. The pain, the grief, it all made me yearn for that old escape. My brothers, they stood by me, but the temptation . . . it was almost too much.”
Dr. Cooperson nods. “And you remained strong, that’s a successful story, not a failure. Just keep taking it one day at a time. Progress over perfection.”
I let her words sink in, strengthening my determination. She’s right—all I can do is keep moving forward as best I can. In fact, I’m ready to come clean to Seraphina.
* * *
Even though I thought I was ready to reach out to Seraphina, I wait four more months before I feel like I’m ready to discuss the past, our children, and the possibility of us. I reach out via text.
Brahms: Hello, Seraphina.
Sephie: This is a surprise. How’s your hand?
I stare at the screen, feeling dissatisfied by her answer. It’s polite and distant. Not sure what I expected but her asking me about my hand was not it.
