Discharge session. D brought Junior Cert results. Appeared proud and pleased. Spoke animatedly about transition year. Decided to move school for a fresh start. Visited St C’s last week and discussed his past experience with principal and parents. Expressed some concern that bullying would reoccur in new school but said that if it did he would be more comfortable raising it with new principal who he likes. Sad to end sessions (both of us!) but D happy to move on and demonstrates increased confidence and greater openness in discussing his difficulties with family.

I searched for Dominik online. Many came up but only one in the same county as me. I clicked into his social media profile. His wall was private, but some personal information was open. Dominik Mazur. Twenty-four. Works at TEFL Singapore International School. In a relationship with Chloe Durand. His photo was him, tan and handsome, with his arm around a short girl with curly hair. They looked like they were in a pub.

I’m not stupid. I know that social media doesn’t tell the full story about anyone’s life. He was hardly going to post a picture of himself looking depressed. But he was alive. He was teaching English in Singapore and he had a girlfriend. So at least some things were good and maybe part of that was down to Mum. I blinked back a few tears rudely trying to escape.

“How is this not done yet—Saoirse, is that one of your mum’s files?” Dad’s tone shifted from exasperated to sharp in the same sentence. He marched toward me with stern knitted brows. He’d left a mirror propped up against the wall in the hallway.

“Uh . . .”

“Saoirse! Those are private.” He took the file out of my lap. “Your mum would go ballistic.”

I hung my head. I knew it was technically wrong, but I didn’t feel like I was spying on this stranger, this fifteen-year-old boy, so much as I was spying on a version of my mum that I sometimes forgot existed. I didn’t really regret it and judging by Dad’s skeptical expression, my acting was over the top.

“Wise up and get back to work, it’s getting late,” he said gruffly. But he didn’t really seem mad. Before I could stop myself I blurted out a question.

“Do you think she really helped people?”

Dad stopped in the doorway. His expression softened.

“Of course she did. Not everyone. Liz would be the first to say she wasn’t the right therapist for everyone. But she was the perfect therapist for some people.”

“That’s nice, I suppose.”

“Why do you ask?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess it’s nice to know that there are people out there who remember her. Who are living better lives because they knew her.”