It’s something I share with Christian in my next therapy session, that it feels good to trust my own judgment after so long second-guessing myself. I’m going to give the process a proper chance this time. Christian appears wise; he’s much older than Stuart with a long beard, kind eyes and lines that crisscross his forehead like he’s heard a tale or two and is unshockable. We’ll see.

Christian, however, has a different agenda.

“I’m interested in discussing some of the things you brought up in our introductory session.”

I mentally rewind. I’ve got a good memory. I discovered from a fairly young age that it’s best to remember what I’ve said and when. I’d been careful, kept the conversation bland. Perhaps that was the problem? I read online that people who insist they had happy childhoods—yet don’t appear to remember them in much detail—often didn’t. Denial isn’t the case with me because mine was secure enough. Nonetheless, some of my teenage mistakes gave me vital life lessons, although it didn’t feel like it at the time. Despite knowing this now, shame remains embedded in my psyche.

“Your friend Nina.” He looks up from his notes at me through his glasses. “You said that you feel an overwhelming responsibility toward her family.”

He places emphasis on the word overwhelming to guide my response.

“Wouldn’t anyone?”

Christian doesn’t reply.

“It’s hard to explain. However, obviously I’m here and she’s not. She trusted me to carry out her wishes.”

“Her wishes?”

I’m unwilling to share too much, too soon. How do I know if I can trust him? That is the flaw with this type of thing. There are no testimonials, other clients remain a secret, time slots carefully managed to ensure we never meet. All I can do is tread carefully, use my instinct. Or park on his street at random times to suss out what kind of people his other clients are. But what would it tell me, really? I’d love Nina’s opinion.

The now-familiar ache builds. I have no one to fill the gap.

“She trusted me to carry out her wishes. She was scared, she wanted to make sure that someone protected her family.”

“Scared?”

“Well, you would be, wouldn’t you?” I say.

“Different people react in different ways,” he says. “And not always how you’d expect.”

On his online bio it states that he spent many years volunteering at a hospice. It’s partly why I chose him. I never really believed that Nina would actually die. Yet she did, and she’s gone. Ben has left me and I don’t blame him. Some of the things he accused me of were true.

For the first time ever, I break down in front of a stranger.

It isn’t cathartic, and I’m really pissed off at my weakness. All week it niggles at me, yet I feel compelled to stick with him for now. He managed to puncture me in a way that no one else has, and I feel a grudging respect for him. Perhaps I am getting better at judging people and situations.