Beneath the Surface

A Turn For The Worst

As the sun rises over Boston, casting a golden hue upon the city streets, a sense of unease settles in the pit of my stomach. Today marks the arrival of my parents, and while a part of me anticipates their visit, another part dreads the inevitable conversation about my missed therapy sessions.

Liam and I arrive at the hotel where my parents are staying, our footsteps echoing in the marble-floored lobby. My heart races as we approach my parents' room, my hand trembling slightly as I knock on the door.

The door swings open, and my parents greet us with warm smiles, yet there is a hint of concern in their eyes.

"Hello, darling," Mum says, enveloping me in a tight hug. Her embrace feels both comforting and suffocating, a tangible reminder of the weight of expectations I carry.

"Hi, Dad," I say, returning his embrace with a mixture of relief and apprehension.

Liam steps forward, extending his hand. "Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Carter. I'm Liam, Sam's boyfriend. It's a pleasure to meet you."

My parents exchange a knowing glance before turning back to Liam with genuine smiles.

"Nice to meet you, Liam," Dad says, shaking his hand firmly. "Thank you for taking care of our girl."

After settling in, we decide to visit Dr. Martins, the therapist I have been seeing. The atmosphere in Dr. Martins' office is tense as we discuss my progress—or lack thereof.

"Samara, I'm concerned that you're not improving as quickly as we'd hoped," Dr. Martins says gently, her brow furrowed with worry.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, my gaze flickering between my parents and Dr. Martins. "I'm fine, really," I insist, my voice betraying my inner turmoil. My words feel hollow, a feeble attempt to conceal the storm raging within me.

"Honey, we know you are okay, but you need to open up and let things go," Mum says, her voice tinged with concern and frustration. Her words echo in the sterile confines of the office, a stark reminder of my failure to confront the ghosts of my past.

"You guys wanted me to loosen up, and I did. I have friends and a boyfriend, Mum," I say, my tone tinged with defiance. But beneath the bravado, a sense of insecurity gnaws at my resolve, a lingering fear of abandonment that refuses to be silenced.

"You haven't forgotten about Natalie, and everything that reminds you of her changes your mood," Dad says, his voice tinged with sadness. His words cut through the facade I have erected, laying bare the raw wounds I have tried so desperately to conceal.

"Am I supposed to forget her?" I question, my voice trembling with anger and grief. The memory of Natalie looms large in my mind, a spectre haunting every corner of my existence.

Dad sighs, his frustration evident. "Samara, we just want what's best for you, and we know you still have difficulties digesting the death of Natalie."

But my defences are up, my walls firmly in place. "I don't need your help," I snap, my tone sharper than intended. The words hang in the air, a barrier erected between us, a testament to the rift that has grown between father and daughter.

Tension hangs thick in the air as Dad's expression hardens. "Samara, please."

But before he can finish his sentence, I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor as I storm out of the office, my heart pounding in my chest. The weight of their expectations is suffocating, a heavy burden I can no longer bear.

As Dad follows me out into the hallway, my vision blurs with tears of frustration and anger. I can't bear to face Dad's disappointment, can't bear the fact that they want me to forget Natalie.