I’ve always thought therapy was a load of shite.

Still do, if I’m bein’ honest. Sitting here while Mark drones on about forgiveness like it’s some holy fuckin’ achievement he’s entitled to just because he says the word enough times. Like it undoes anything. Like it rewinds bruises. Broken bones. Fear.

He fucked up. Bad. He abused his children. His. And now he wants forgiveness?

Not a hope.

I wouldn’t forgive my da if he crawled on his knees and begged. Wouldn’t piss on the bastard if he was on fire, never mind sit across from him pretendin’ we’re equal participants in some healing journey. He’s dead to me. Has been for years.

Still — I’d rather be here listening to Mark talk.

And that’s sayin’ somethin’.

Because I hate this place. Properly hate it. Fluorescent lights hummin’ overhead like they’re drillin’ into my skull. Beige walls. Beige carpet. Beige chairs. I’ve genuinely considered jumpin’ out the fuckin’ window at least three times today, just to see if it’d end the session early.

I shift again, legs spreading wider, tryin’ to make myself fit on the miserable little plastic chair they’ve forced me into. Thing’s built for toddlers or accountants, not someone my size. My knees are nearly up around my ears.

I glance down at it, annoyed. Wonder if they charge extra for chairs that don’t feel like a personal insult. If they do, I’m gettin’ a job. I’m not sittin’ on this fuckin’ thing again.

I snort quietly to myself. Every time I sit on these shite chairs I swear my arse gets bigger. People say it’s “juicy.” Whatever the fuck that means. It’s not big. Just… there. Johnny Kavanagh’d snap one of these chairs clean in half. Shannon would never let him hear the end of it.

“I feel so sorry for doing it to them,” Mark sobs, wiping his face with dramatic flair, like he’s auditionin’ for a daytime telly role.

Prick.

He thinks he gets to cry? Over somethin’ he did? Like the tears make it communal. Like the alcohol did it. No. It was him. Always was.

Am I even listenin’ to Mark anymore?

“I—I meant to stop,” he stammers. “I really did—”

Lies. Lies. Lies.

“Bullshit,” I snap, voice sharp enough to cut. “If you loved them, you wouldn’t have started drinkin’. And you sure as hell wouldn’t have hit them.”

The room goes quiet. Mark flinches like I’ve slapped him. Starts cryin’ harder.

For fuck’s sake. Act like a grown man, would ya?

Then the door clicks.

Soft. Barely there. But it pulls every ounce of attention in the room toward it.

And I freeze.

She steps in.

Small. Too small for a place like this. Long blonde hair fallin’ loose around her shoulders like she hasn’t bothered to tie it back ‘cause what’s the point. She looks like she wants to disappear into the wall. Like she regrets walkin’ in already.

Her eyes dart around the room, quick and nervous, scannin’ for exits. For escape routes.

Yeah, I think, leaning back slightly, legs spreading wider without meaning to. Me too, baby. Me too.

Then her gaze lands on me.

And it sticks.

Doesn’t slide away. Doesn’t flinch. Just… stays.

The room fades out around the edges. Mark. The chairs. The buzzin’ lights. All gone.

It’s just me and her and the look in her eyes that says she doesn’t want to be here either — and somehow, that feels like the most honest thing I’ve seen all day.

And somethin’ in my chest shifts.