Confession is uncomfortable; it reminds me of going to church. I didn’t come here to talk about Nina or the wedding. I don’t know why I do this to myself, why I come here and talk about such pointless stuff. I wish I could cut through the bullshit, say what I really came to therapy to share.

The undivided attention is alluring, however—when I can push from my mind the fact that I’m paying for it. Out of all my therapists, he’s the most adept at making me feel like he cares. While it’s intoxicating, it makes me shy further away from the truth. I don’t want him to think badly of me, despite it being a waste of time, money, energy—everything—yet a buried part of my subconscious hopes that he can cure me. I want to feel normal. I want to feel, well, just better. I don’t want to feel like me.

Yet, I seem unable to move on from Nina.

“I get the impression from Stuart that Nina valued me,” I say. I don’t want to come across as a complete leech.

“In what way?”

“He treats me as if he’s fond of me. He trusts me with the children. He wouldn’t do that if Nina had spoken badly of me.”

“Why do you think she would have done that?”

“I found some correspondence when I was sorting out her affairs,” I say, trying to make it sound businesslike. “She’d been in contact with a friend and it’s hard to put my finger on precisely what was wrong with their exchange, but it was odd. Their conversations appeared stilted. I’m really not being paranoid, honestly, but it also felt like they were discussing me in an unfavorable way.”

“In what respect?”

“That’s the puzzling thing, I don’t really understand. Nina and I had disagreements, but not major ones.”

That is true, but the unsaid and unacknowledged issues that nonetheless existed perhaps cast wider shadows than I’d ever fully appreciated.

Christian does his best to lift my mood, but I leave on a downer, my mind in overdrive, especially after he tells me that he’s taking a fortnight’s holiday next month. I appreciate that it’s irrational, but it makes me feel like I’m not special or interesting enough, the fact that he needs a break. Maybe I do need to be more honest and discuss how devastated I was when Charlie died. But then again, what good can it do, really? It’s not as if talking about him can bring him back.

Back home, I hesitate as I open the front door. I needn’t have worried. A cozy, happy family scene awaits and one that I feel immediately welcomed into when Suzanne looks up. She beams as I enter.

“Lovely to see you, Marie! We’re making Santa Claus–shaped gingerbread men. Come and try one!”

“Love to!”

Only Emily looks put out as I taste their creations. I need to work harder to win her round, make her trust me. Perhaps I’ve been too strict lately. The reward chart didn’t go down well. I concentrate on giving her positive attention (like I’ve read in parenting books) by saying, “Well done, Emily,” “Great job,” and “Clever girl,” as much as I can bear to.