"I want to say something directly, and I hope you'll receive it as it's intended." She folded her hands with slow precision. "I cannot help a family that doesn't want to be helped. Therapy requires participation. I can work with resistance. I can work with anger. I can work with people who arrive every weekand disagree with everything I say. What I cannot work with is consistent, repeated absence. That absence communicates something, and it's my professional obligation to tell you what."
"What does it tell you?"
"That your family dynamic is set and that your children and ex-husband don't believe this process will help them. I think we should hit pause for now. I'm always available if you need to reach out."
"Okay. Thank you, Dr. Anders."
I closed the laptop and sighed. Something had to change.
For all of us.
July 30, Thursday
THE AIRinside the courtroom felt like a held breath.
I was working on a new prosthetic, this one a deep peach color.
Both legal teams had their heads together in a way they hadn't before—not the quiet, strategic conferring of earlier weeks but something more pressured. Voices remained low but the body language was specific: shoulders forward, hands moving, the occasional glance at the judge.
At ten-thirty the judge called a recess and both lead attorneys disappeared into chambers.
"I'll bet it's a plea deal," a man behind me said with the flat certainty of someone who'd served before. "Happens all the time when trial gets close. Defense blinks. They'll come back out and tell us we can all go home."
"After all this time?" a woman asked.
"My brother-in-law's a public defender," said a woman near the window. "He says half his cases settle in the last forty-eight hours. The pressure of imminent trial changes people's minds."
I glanced at Robert Blackthorne. His posture was confident and relaxed, as always.
Then I glanced at Deputy Wells. He stood with feet shoulder-width apart, hands loose, eyes making their steady circuit of the room. He gave nothing. His posture wasn't different. His expression wasn't different. Either nothing was happening in chambers, or he was excellent at knowing things without showing them. Given his profession, I suspected the latter.
The man on my right leaned toward me. "Think it's a deal?"
"I couldn't say."
"It'd be nice to go home, though, wouldn't it?"
I didn't respond, just looked back to my knitting.
Fifty minutes later the door opened. Both attorneys returned to their tables and sat with their teams. The judge resumed his position and addressed the jury pool.
"The case is proceeding as scheduled. I'd ask you to return tomorrow morning." A pause. "I'm hopeful that by the end of tomorrow's session, we will have our jury."
I drove home thinking about what "by the end of tomorrow" meant for me and whether I should be hoping for one outcome or another. By the time I pulled into the garage, I still hadn't decided.
Lily and Josh were both in the house, a notable occurrence.
"It's a shame you couldn't make it to therapy last night," I said.
"Totally forgot," Lily offered.
"Same," Josh said. "Besides our stuff is nobody's business."
I began to pull the makings of dinner from the fridge.
"I have to go shopping this weekend to get the rest of my school clothes," Lily said. "I need, like, everything."
"I need underwear," Josh offered.
