Trey was speaking in hushed tones with the woman in the room, while Mrs. Williams and I patiently waited within the hospital walls. My phone rang, displaying my dad's caller ID. I excused myself from Mrs. Williams and answered, "Yes, Dad."
"Hey, baby girl, how are you?" he asked.
"I am okay at the hospital," I replied, knowing I had sent him a text when Trey was admitted.
"Okay, how is Trey's progress?" he inquired, and I filled him in. Then he said, "I spoke to your mom, and she is willing to come to the therapy, so we both will be there." This news caused me to panic a little. "Oh, okay," I stuttered. We exchanged goodbyes and ended the call.
Mrs. Williams must have noticed the change in my expression as she approached and asked what was wrong. I informed her, "Stephanie, you need this to heal properly. It may be too soon for you, but it's well needed," she said with a warm smile.
The unknown guest walked out of the room in tears, leaving me to wonder about her relationship with Trey. Mrs. Williams entered, and I stood in the hallway, texting Blacks with Trey's update, to which he replied that he was on his way.
As I entered the room, Mrs. Williams said, "I am going to eat this lovely dinner my daughter bought in the hall," which brought a smile to my face. Trey was looking at me intently. I sat in the chair next to his bed and asked, "How are you feeling?"
"Stephanie, I am okay. I just need you to know that the woman you saw was Sidney," he began to explain. "Oh," I replied. Sidney was his college girlfriend they broke up with after three months of dating, but her presence here still didn't make sense.
"We saw each other when I went to Florida last weekend, and she was the last person I spoke with before the accident. I don't know who told the nurse to call her," he said.
"Okay, that's your business," I replied, trying to hide my jealousy. My subconscious mocked me, "Don't take it personally, you dummy."
"Trey, I really need to get going," I trailed off, unsure of what to say. But Trey grabbed my hand, and as I turned to look at him, he said, "I know you care for me and maybe even like me more than a friend. I heard you." My cheeks blushed, and he pulled me close for a kiss, only to be interrupted by a cough at the door, revealing Blacks and Candy, who were smiling and causing me to blush even more.
Fast forward to Friday, the day of therapy. I was relieved that I managed to change the date, as I couldn't bear the thought of a mid-week session given my recent mental breakdown.
I left work early, went home, and changed into comfortable attire. My dad had come up from Westmoreland the day before and was staying with me. He was in the living room, dressed in black denim pants, a black polo, and black Yeezys, engrossed in his phone. I went to my room, undressed, and took a shower with eucalyptus body shower gel to ease my tension.
I dressed in a yellow cotton shirt dress, paired with black divani sandals, a black sling Marc Jacobs bag, and a black leather watch. I left my natural hair in its curly state, wanting to keep things simple.
In the living room, I grabbed a bag of banana chips and a glass of orange juice. "Ready?" my dad asked, and I nodded. I was dreading this therapy session.
My dad drove his black Land Rover as I gave him the address. When we arrived and entered the therapy office, my mom was already there, engaged in conversation with the therapist. She was dressed in blue denim jeans and a light pink shirt, her hair in a messy bun. I exchanged a look with my dad, and he nodded in support. We took our seats, me on the right and my parents in the middle.
"Thank you all for coming," Mrs. Evans, my therapist, said. "Stephanie has been on a journey, and we need to delve into some past hurdles and understanding. As both of you are her parents, your involvement is crucial."
"Firstly, I want you to know that I spoke with each of you earlier today to gain insight and to help you help your daughter navigate life," Mrs. Evans continued, surprising me that my parents had communicated before therapy.
"First, I will ask Stephanie to tell you how she feels about you. Please refrain from interrupting. Wait until she is finished, and then I will ask each of you how you are accepting what she says," Mrs. Evans explained.
As I sat there in that therapist's office, the weight of my childhood memories bore down on me, and I finally mustered the courage to speak my truth.
"As a child, I felt neglected by both of you," I began, my voice quivering. My gaze fell upon my mother, whose indifference had scarred me deeply. "Mother, you made me feel as if I wasn't your child, that I was an inconvenience." I could still vividly recall the moments when her words cut like a knife, leaving emotional wounds that never seemed to heal.
Turning to my father, I continued, "Dad, you weren't there to protect me from Mother's wrath." My eyes welled up with tears as I revisited those painful memories of beatings, nights without food, and the burden of doing everyone's chores at such a tender age. "I felt no love."
I watched as my father's gaze met mine, filled with sympathy and genuine concern. His eyes seemed to convey a silent apology, and for the first time, I felt a glimmer of hope that he might understand the depth of my pain.
My mother, on the other hand, rolled her eyes and stared blankly at the walls of the therapist's office, as if my words were nothing more than an inconvenience to her. It was a stark reminder of the emotional distance that had always existed between us.
In that moment, the room seemed to hold the weight of unspoken truths, and I braced myself for what would come next, hoping for answers to the burning question that had haunted me for so long: Why was I treated like this?
In that therapist's office, the air seemed to grow heavier as Mrs. Evans turned her attention to my mother, her words carrying an unmistakable urgency. "You are looking at the walls and not acknowledging Stephanie. Can you tell me how that made you feel and why she was treated that way?" she asked.
My mother's gaze shifted reluctantly from the walls, and she regarded the therapist with an air of indifference. "Stephanie needed to learn how the world works," she replied, her tone devoid of any remorse. I bit my lip, suppressing the urge to voice my thoughts, though the words stung like salt on an open wound. Her justification for the harsh treatment still felt like a painful betrayal.
My mother continued, her disdain evident as she glanced at my dad and me. "Stephanie's dad coddled her too much. I had to make sure she learned, and furthermore, her dad should have married me." Her words dripped with bitterness, casting a shadow over the room as she laid blame on my father, a blame that I knew was misplaced.
Mrs. Evans turned her gaze to my father, giving him the opportunity to explain himself. His eyes met mine, filled with regret and an unspoken apology. "Baby girl, firstly, I apologize," he began, his voice carrying a weight of sincerity. "Had I known the severity of everything, I would have tried harder." His admission touched my heart, as I knew he had done his best with the limited time he had. "Unfortunately, though, I was only given weekends, and that is on us as your parents. Maybe if we had tried to come to a resolve, everything wouldn't have been that bad."
As my father's words hung in the air, I felt a mix of emotions-gratitude for his honesty and an ache for the missed opportunities for a better childhood. But it was my mother's indifference and her refusal to acknowledge the pain she had caused that hurt me the most, leaving wounds that no apology could easily heal.
In the therapist's office, Mrs. Evans turned her attention to my dad with a request that carried an air of significance. "Mr. Robinson, I am going to ask that you step out for 25 minutes while I have your daughter and her mother talk, then you and your daughter, and then all of you again," she explained.
My dad nodded in agreement and cast a reassuring wink in my direction before rising from his seat. He gave me a small, encouraging smile before leaving the room, leaving me alone with my mother and the therapist.
Once it was just the three of us, Mrs. Evans addressed my mother directly. "Ms. Marcia, your daughter and you have no relationship; however, you both have been hurt," she began. "You by a marriage you wanted and a mother's love that she wanted. Can you tell me what your childhood was like, Ms. Marcia?"
My mother's demeanor shifted, and she began to recount her own childhood. She explained how her mother had left her with her father, who raised her alongside her stepmother. As she spoke, her voice carried the weight of her memories. She shared the hardships she endured, describing a life filled with endless chores, including washing everyone's clothes and cooking dinner. Despite being an only child, the burden of responsibility had fallen heavily upon her young shoulders.
As I listened to my mother's story, a sense of familiarity began to creep in. I couldn't help but draw parallels between her upbringing and my own. It was in that moment of shared pain and understanding that I started to glimpse the complex tapestry of our lives, woven together by experiences that had shaped both of us in profound ways.
As the therapist skillfully drew parallels between my mother's childhood and mine, a moment of profound clarity hung in the air. It was the first time my mother truly looked at me, acknowledging the undeniable similarities in our upbringing. She hesitated for a moment, then uttered two simple words that held immense weight, " Steph I am sorry."
Her apology was a fragile bridge, one that seemed like it might lead to understanding and reconciliation. But, true to the volatile nature of our relationship, it was swiftly followed by a torrent of bitterness. "You have everything now, and you haven't taken care of me or your siblings," she accused, her words stinging like an open wound. It was as if every glimmer of hope was extinguished by the eruption of her pent-up resentment.
The therapist, sensing that the session had reached its conclusion, gently brought it to an end. Her insights had provided me with a newfound perspective, one that allowed me to accept that I couldn't change the painful aspects of my childhood. What I could change, however, was my outlook and my path forward.
As my mother walked out of the therapist's office, she turned to my dad and made a request for money. He met her gaze with an apologetic look, a silent acknowledgment of the difficult circumstances that had led to her participation in the therapy session. It was a stark reminder of the complex dynamics within my family, a reminder that change, if it was to come, would be a gradual and challenging process.
Author Note
This is the longest chapter I think I have written.Its the last week of my two months vacay so I am trying to edit everything properly. I hope you like it remember to vote and comment.