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Shauna never thought she would end up here.
Not after everything.
The kitchen light flickered above her, the sink stacked with dishes her daughter swore she’d wash “later.” Later never came. The mailbox was heavy with envelopes she didn’t want to open; electric, mortgage, another polite red-letter reminder. Mari had said she’d handle them.
Mari always said she’d handle them.
“Progress,” Dr Keller had insisted during their last session, hands folded, smile patient. “You’re communicating more.”
Communicating. Right.
Dr Keller leaned back in her chair, tapping her notepad with her pen. “So lets start..”
And then came the million dollar question:
“What would each of you feel like if you separated ways?”
Dr. Keller’s question didn’t hang in the air.
It pressed.
Shauna felt it settle heavy in her chest, heavier than the unopened bills, heavier than the silence that had been living between her and Mari for months.
Separate ways.
She let out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s… dramatic.”
Dr. Keller didn’t react. Just waited.
Mari shifted in her seat. She didn’t look at Shauna. She’d been staring at the woven rug the entire session, like there was something fascinating about the pattern. “It’s not dramatic,” Mari said quietly. “It’s realistic or
something.”
That stung more than Shauna expected.
Realistic.
Shauna crossed her arms. Defensive. Automatic. “I’d feel fine,” she said too quickly. “Less tense. No more arguing about who forgot what. No more—” She cut herself off.
No more you.
The words wouldn’t come out.
Dr. Keller tilted her head slightly. “Fine,” she repeated. “Can you tell me what ‘fine’ feels like?”
Silence.
Shauna swallowed.
“Empty,” she admitted, before she could stop herself. Her voice was quieter now. “It would feel empty.”
Mari finally looked at her.
And there it was; that flicker. Not anger. Not sarcasm.
Fear.
“I think I’d feel like I failed,” Mari said. Her hands twisted together in her lap. “Failed to be a wife. Failed to be a mom. Failed to be a regular person..”
Shauna’s chest tightened at Mari’s words. She wanted to say you’re not failing, wanted to reach across the small space between them and grab her, but the words stuck somewhere behind her ribs.
Dr. Keller’s pen paused mid-note. “And beyond failing…?” sheasked gently, eyes moving between them. “What else?”
Mari blinked, a quick, jagged motion, like she was trying to swallow something too big. “I’d miss… her,” she said, almost under her breath. “I’d miss coming home and seeing her and stuff. Even if we argued—it kind of turned me on.”
Shauna’s throat tightened. Ordinary stuff. That’s what she missed too, in the quiet moments she hardly let herself notice. Cooking dinner together, baby Callie babbling in the background, the feeling of happiness, especially after the crash.
Shauna had never felt that happy after everything.
Shauna’s hands tightened in her lap, her nails pressing into her palms. She wanted to reach for Mari, not to argue, not to fix, just to hold on to that small, ordinary, impossible feeling.
“I’d miss… that too,” Shauna said finally, her voice low. “Even the stupid arguments. Even the… forgetting things.” She swallowed hard. “I’d miss you.”
Mari’s eyes softened, flickering with something Shauna hadn’t seen in a long time; hope, maybe, or the memory of it.
Dr. Keller leaned back again, giving them space. “You’re naming the weight of your life together. That’s important. That’s progress.”
Shauna let out a shaky breath. She thought of the bills, the dishes, the endless little failures. But she thought too of Mari’s laugh echoing down the hall, of Callie’s sticky little hand slipping into hers, of the rare quiet moments where nothing hurt and everything was enough.
She slumped back into her seat, twisting her wedding ring on her finger.
She thought about taking the silver band off many times, but she knew she shouldn’t.
She couldn’t. Not when she loved Mari this much.