It’d been ages since I’d been showered with so many compliments. If anything, my time with Max was a fun distraction from my inner turmoil about what to do with my life. I didn’t even want to drag down our conversations with all my fears and anxieties.
That was when I decided I’d be going home with him tonight.
15
My therapist refused to tell me what she thought I should do.
Over the last few weeks, we’d spent a lot of time talking about what I like to do outside of work, but not so much time talking about what I should do next.
“So my return-to-work date is July 15th,” I said today. She nodded but said nothing, giving me time to go on. She did this often. “And…I don’t know what to do.”
“Do you want to go back?”
“I don’t know. Do you think I should?” I’d told her all about what my life was like the last six years, and how by the end, I couldn’t enjoy my time outside of work, either. I thought maybe she’d say something like:Of course you shouldn’t go back to a place that made you feel that way.
But instead she said, “Do you miss it?”
Sometimes I wished she would opine more during these sessions. It seemed like her method was to ask me open-ended questions, let me fill the time talking, and then she would give me some things to think about at the end.
As I considered her question, images of my office, my computer, my phone, and my closet full of business casual attireflashed through my mind. Emotionally, I didn’t miss it at all. But then I thought about the deal announcements, the accolades, my enviable salary, people’s impressed reactions when I told them I was a Peters & Dowling attorney… Maybe I missed those parts?
“Not really. But I also know that this break, not working but still getting a paycheck, is temporary. It’s not like I can do this forever. I don’t want to deplete my savings. And I’m not the type tonotwork.”
“Is there anything else you might like to do for work that isn’t your old job?”
Write.The thought popped into my head reflexively. I squished it down.I have a law degree and an expertise I worked really hard for; I have to use it.
Don’t I?
“I don’t know,” I said again.
“You mentioned you like writing. Is that something you’ve ever considered doing as more than a hobby?”
Honestly, it already felt like more than a hobby. Lately I’d been writing for at least a couple of hours per day. My first short story was complete. It ended up being longer than I expected, and I’d decided to turn it into at least a novella, maybe a novel. I read writers’ blogs every day and looked for new prompts to spark new ideas. I had several partially written stories on my Google Drive now.
“Not seriously, no.” Why was it so hard for me to be open with her on this topic? She gave me the perfect opportunity.
“Maybe you should think about it. Before next week I want you to imagine doing something else and consider whether it would bring more or less satisfaction than your old job.”
On Wednesday it rained buckets, and I met Luna at the bus with an umbrella. She didn’t have any homework since her school year was ending in two days, so we had over twohours to kill before Luke got home. When we got inside, I took stock of the walk-in pantry and found a bag of chocolate chips, flour, sugar, and vanilla extract. Plus, they had butter and eggs in the fridge.
“Want to bake some chocolate chip cookies?” I called to Luna in the living room. I assumed she had flopped down on the couch and was about to turn on the TV, which was also fine with me, but I was endeavoring to not be the world’s most boring babysitter.
“Yeah!” Before I turned around with all the ingredients cradled in my arms, she’d appeared in the pantry. “Do you know how to make those?”
I handed her the bag of chocolate chips. “Pro tip: there’s a recipe on the back of the chocolate chip bag.”
“Cool!”
Within the hour, Luna and I were insulated from the raw chill of the rainy afternoon by the rising temperature in the kitchen and the smell of sugar and butter and melting chocolate.
“Be careful, don’t burn your mouth,” I said as she took a small test bite of the hot cookie that threatened to fall apart in her hands. She gave me a thumbs up before taking an even bigger bite. I’d held her off for all of five minutes after the first batch came out of the oven. A little smile lifted her cheeks while she chewed. I stepped around her and grabbed one for myself.
Luna told me about her friends in her second-grade class between bites. I tried to keep track of all the names, but I could use a notebook. I was glad she was sharing things with me, even if I was the one to ask. She was becoming comfortable with me, I could tell. The cookies likely helped.
Luna was reaching for her second cookie when we heard the front door open. I raised my eyebrows at her and she took a huge bite of the gooey treat in her hand, her eyes wide. As Luke rounded the corner into the kitchen, she shoved the other half in her mouth, as if to hide the evidence.
“Hey! You’re home.” I said.
