on my beach towel by the steps.

“Yikes!

It’s something big, isn’t it?”

Catalina swims closer to me.

I nod.

“My therapist wants me to confront Mom.”

“Wowza!”

“I dread it.”

“But you need to, Ellie.

You really do.

I don’t know how

you’ve put up with it this long.”

“What if it doesn’t change anything?

What if it makes matters worse?”

“What if it helps?

What if things get better?”

I hadn’t thought like that.

“You’re right.”

“I always am.”

I laugh for the first time since

Doc told me I needed to confront Mom.

“How can I help?” Catalina asks.

“I need to figure out

what I’m going to say.”

“Practice on me.

Pretend I’m your mom.”

So that’s what we do for days.

I rehearse my words with Catalina

during laps in the pool

and at night with Gigi,

who cocks her head

from side to side

listening to my every word.

I write them down, too,

in case I get all nervous and

forget what I want to say.

When the time comes,

I’m ready.

THIS IS MY TIME

Doc and I have company

for today’s session.

Doc directs Dad and Mom

to two chairs not usually in the office.

Doc rolls her chair close to me.

“To be clear,

you’re here

because Ellie asked you to come.

I’m here to provide any support

she needs to express her feelings

about things

that have happened,

about words

that have been said.”

Dad and Mom nod in understanding.

“Ellie, whenever you’re ready, begin.”

I fold and unfold

the bullet-point list

of what I’d planned to say.

As I look over it,

I realize I’ve been

preparing for a trial,

offering up a defense

of why I should be loved.

I toss it into the trash.

I curl and uncurl

the throw pillow tassels

around my fingers.

“I don’t feel like

you love me, Mom.”

Mom leans forward,

starts to say something.

I stop her.

“No.

You’ve said enough.

This is my time to talk.”

WEIGHT OF WORDS

I control my breathing,

like Doc and I

have been practicing.

“Mom, I don’t feel like

you’ll ever love me,

can ever love me,

unless

I lose weight.”

I reach for a tissue

as the words catch in my throat.

“I used to think

I needed you to love me

or I would be

incomplete.”

The tears flow.

I don’t blink them back

or try to hide or bury them.

I take my time.

Feel them.

Each and every drop.

Feel them drain the pain.

When my tears taper off,

I look over at Doc.

“You’re doing great.

Need to take a break?”

I shake my head.

Start again.

“I have people in my life

who love me,

so I’ll be okay.”

I smile at Dad.

He reaches for his bandanna

and dabs his eyes.