“We went through three therapists last year,” Gary says. “With all the money we wasted on them I could have moved out already.”

The thought of dredging everything up again makes me want to slide off the chair onto the floor and stay there. But then we’d still be here, in this same place, this awful purgatory, and I’d feel even deader than I do now.

And then there’s Teddy. Whether what we’re doing and how we’re doing it is having an effect on him.

I stare at the train table, lean forward to touch my fingers to the scratches and grooves where he used to run his trains back and forth on the wood, before he learned how to snap the tracks together and build loops with curves and straightaways and tunnels and bridges. “Remember when he would stand and play at this table for hours?”

Gary looks at me, then at the lighter in his hand, then at the table. Of course he remembers. It’s as if Teddy is right there in front of us, with his tiny pants and minihoodie-sweatshirt, clutching a train car in each hand and pointing at us to watch.

Couples Therapist Number Four

We sit on a long couch facing Deirdre Nussbaum, MSW, whose name we got using a new therapist-rating-and-locator app I’d written about for Well/er (“If Open Table and Yelp and Headspace had a baby, 50Minutes would be it”). Sporting boxy cotton separates and giant wearable-art earrings, she smiles and takes our new patient clipboards from us, leans in as she scans them, then looks up at us soulfully.

“How can I help?”

I clear my throat, wait for words to come, but none do. They never do. For all my alleged ease with them, I am more often than not at a total loss for coherent sentences, stammering out half syllables, especially in stressful situations like this. I scan the walls, then the bookshelves, tilting my head slightly to read the titles: The Dance of Anger. Un-Coupling. Children of Divorce. There’s a Bird on Your Head . . .

“Judy?”

My lips finally move, but the words don’t feel like mine. “We’re trying to negotiate our separation. In terms of our son.”

Deirdre kicks off her boiled-wool clogs to sit crisscross-applesauce in her midcentury leather shrink-chair. Then she points to the sling. “Is that your son?”

I laugh, too loudly at first, flattered to be considered young enough to be wearing a baby, then uncomfortably at the weirdness of the truth. “No! No. That’s the dog.”

Gary sighs. “She has anxiety issues.”

“Wait,” Deirdre says, looking at us over red half-glasses. “Who has anxiety issues: Judy or the dog?”

Gary, the one with the actual anxiety problem, sits up a little straighter, raises an eyebrow at me. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all, the eyebrow says. He’s wanted to discuss Sling-Dog Millionaire for a while, but until now the time has never been right.

“She was a rescue,” I lie, the way I always do, too ashamed to admit that we got the dog from an actual pet store, which I like to think means we actually did rescue her, and which conveniently makes it less of a lie. “She needs constant reassurance that she’s safe and loved.”