“It’s frightening for most of us to imagine what you have lived through. How are you and David?” She pulls off her reader glasses, twirls them in her hand.

“He’s very busy, at work.” He’s also a liar, and a serial cheater.

“Hmm.” Dr. Rosenthal says a lot without words sometimes. She stares at me. I am supposed to fill the air again.

Fine. “We’re focused on Betsy. We had a beautiful family dinner in the dining room Sunday night, even though I accidentally set four places. Habit, I guess.”

“Oh, Jane.” She covers her mouth with her hand. I surprised her with that one.

“I know. It was a mistake. Everything is just so hard. I’m trying. Dinner together was a good start. It’s complicated.”

Dr. Rosenthal nods. “Grief is complicated.”

I nod. “Some days I don’t want to get out of bed.” That isn’t true, but it’s what she wants to hear. Recently, I can’t sleep. I’m agitated, restless since I stopped taking all the sedating drugs she prescribed.

This new information about David, and his inability to be faithful, his lies, well, all of that makes me want to kick a hole in a wall or light a fire in his closet. I see his shirts smoldering, his perfect row of ties light up in a blaze. I stare at Dr. Rosenthal, milling over my revenge fantasies while she analyzes my grief.

“You should be moving through the acute stage of grief by now, but I fear it may be more severe. From what you’ve told me, you may have what researchers are calling complicated grief.” She pauses. “Not many people have heard about the diagnosis.”

I have. I’m smart. I smile. “I am complicated.” My attempt at humor falls flat. But my acting skills are superb. My research also pointed to complicated grief. I’ve read all about it online. Hand me the golden statue.

Dr. Rosenthal isn’t smiling, so I suppress my grin.

She tilts her head, makes a note in my file. “Anyway, women are more vulnerable to complicated grief than men. It often results from a difficult loss, like the loss of a child. It’s a pathological condition. Do you think we should put you back on the pills?”

Oh good, the diagnosis I was shooting for, and an offer of more pharmaceuticals. Does the diagnosis cover a cheating husband and a disrespectful surviving daughter, too? As you surmised by now, there is too much going on for me to numb myself into oblivion for days on end, as tempting as that sounds. Been there, done that. It isn’t a productive state. Things and people slip away from you if you’re not paying attention.

“No, I don’t think more pills are necessary.” True. I could knock out an entire herd of cattle with what is in my medicine cabinet presently.