I leave the house in a daze, the sleepless night lingering like a membrane between me and the cold morning air. For hours and hours, I lay tossing and turning, my mind spinning and my heart aching. I pretended to be sleeping when Eirik came home around ten thirty, but he must have known I was awake because he held me tight in spoons, nuzzling my neck and stroking my arms and stomach lightly. I wanted to cry, but managed to stop myself by focusing on even, deep breathing.

I wish calling my clients and canceling today’s sessions was an option – the thought of sitting across from someone, listening intensely, fills me with restlessness. But first, supervision – it will be good to talk to Vera about what’s going on.

On the corner of Parkveien, I stop and buy a coffee at Kaffebrenneriet and, stirring the brown sugar granules through my Americano, it occurs to me how absurd it is that I know the most intimate details of my clients’ lives, but I have no idea how they take their coffee. I consciously construct an image of Leah in my mind, ordering a coffee at this very same café, which she may well do in real life – she doesn’t live far away. I imagine her quick smile for the barista, a moment of deliberation over a pain au chocolat, and her distinctive, quick way of moving as she leaves the café, clutching a paper cup. Almond-milk macchiato, I decide. Leah is someone who makes conscious choices about everything she eats and drinks, and it has more to do with a desire for control than healthy life choices, though she proclaims that is the primary reason. She is most likely even more conscious of her dietary choices at present, considering her circumstances.

It’s Tuesday and I still haven’t heard from Leah. I am going to have to explain to her in our session on Friday that as our relationship is entirely based on mutual trust, and because our work simply cannot bring change unless that trust is there, we do need to be committed to answering emails, and especially after an episode such as at our last session.

I look around the busy café and make for the door with my coffee, but still an image of Leah lingers on my mind; only now, she is visibly pregnant. She’s sitting at one of the tables in the corner, looking out onto the busy street, smiling serenely, drawing the gentle floral scent of a jasmine green tea into her nostrils, resting a hand on a tiny but unmistakable bump. How could I have missed it?