“Don’t forget who you’re doing this for. This is your first step in healing. You’re always making sure me and the baby are good. You’re our protector, but you can’t protect us if you’re not okay.”

I nodded my head, taking in what she had to say.

“Go in there and speak your truth. Start the first day of your healing journey. Your brother would be so proud of you. And when you’re done, I’ll be at home waiting in my birthday suit for you to take whatever frustrations you didn’t get out in therapy on my pussy.”

“Shit, this is why I fucking love yo’ ass.” I grinned, and the line fell silent. The realization of what I’d just said lingered between us.

“You love me?” she asked, calling me out on it and asking me to stand ten toes down with that statement.

“Hell yeah, Phileigh. I love you. Been in love with you. Just didn’t want to scare you away.”

“I love you too,” she admitted, and I couldn’t lie… it was just the motivation I needed to get my ass off my car and into the therapy building.

“Thank you, Phileigh Cheese.” I gazed into her eyes. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“You got it.” She blew me a kiss before disconnecting the call. I slid my phone in my pocket before making my way to the receptionist desk.

“Hello. I’m Kellon Barnes. I’m joining my mom for her session with Dr. Baites.”

The session started slow. My mom did most of the talking, and I just sat beside her unsure of when to chime in, what to share, or where to start. I didn’t do this. Talk about my feelings and shit. Not because I didn’t want to, but because before Phileigh, I never had anyone who wanted to listen. My eyes bounced around the office as my mom talked. It was a standard therapist’s office with a lot of bookcases, comfortable chairs, and a sofa.

The therapist, Dr. Baites, an older African American woman in her mid-forties or something, sat calmly across from us with a notebook in her lap, listening.

“Kellon.” She called my name, and my eyes darted toward her. I guess this was my time to chime in. “I want to talk about something you mentioned in the survey I sent you. You mentioned struggling to celebrate your accomplishments. You’ve won the Super Bowl, but you say you were afraid to be happy. Can you elaborate on that?”

I took a deep breath and swallowed hard. Phileigh’s word replayed in my head. Take care of you.

“I feel like I stole my brother’s life.” That was it, the truth I’d tried to push to the back of my mind.

“Why?” Dr. Baites questioned.

“Guilt.”

“Elaborate, please.”

“My brother… the night he died…”