I’m sorry I kept you out of how I was trying to deal with the miscarriage. I held it so close to me, like a blanket, or a shield.
I love you so much, I want our life back.
Thank you for being patient with me. Not many men would have been, but you’ve always stood head and shoulders above most everyone else, and not just because of your height - because you’re a good man.
You’re the best man.
The best husband.
The best father.
I hope I haven’t ruined what we had between us, but I’ll also understand if I have. It’s selfish to expect you to do everything I ask you to do and never have anything for yourself.
I’m learning.
I will do better.
I will be better.
Hopefully I’ll have you at my side. I haven’t taken my wedding ring off and I hope you haven’t either.
I love you, Dalton.
Please tell me we have a chance together.
Love,
Amanda
P.S. Give Walker a hug for me and tell him I love him. He has a letter coming too, along with an apology. I just needed to get yours out of my head first.
Tears are falling from my eyes, trailing down my cheeks as I finish the letter. I fully understand what I’m asking of him, and I pray he’s willing to give it to me. Maybe I don’t deserve it, but I will spend the rest of my life making him realize just how special he is.
“What do you regret most about the experience that brought you here?”
Today’s therapist is hitting us with the hard questions. Everyone has to answer when it’s their turn, and I’m already starting to feel anxious.
In my head, I can hear what we’ve been taught to do. The grounding technique is one I’ve called upon multiple times since I’ve been here.
Five things I can see. The blue, cloudless sky outside the window we’re facing, the trepidation that’s spread across all the faces of everyone in this group, the coffee pot in the back of the room (empty - how could someone not start another pot?), my feet making circles on the floor, and the person beside me wringing her hands.
Four things I can feel. The heat of the sunshine coming through the window, the hardness of the concrete beneath my feet, my nails digging into my palms, and the slight breeze from the fan they have set up in the corner
Three things I can hear. The swish of the pen in the quiet room as the therapist makes notes on her notebook paper, someone’s nails beating a rhythm against their chair, and a bird loudly making their presence known outside.
Two things I can smell. That damn coffee pot burning and the horrible, horrible cologne of the guy sitting next to me.
One thing I can taste. The butterscotch candy I put in my mouth before this group session started. I’m thankful for it now.
Before I’m ready, before I’ve steeled myself, I hear the words.
“Mandy, your turn.”
And I wonder if it’s okay to go ahead and pass out. Speaking in a group isn’t my favorite thing to do, neither is laying myself bare, but here I am about to do both.
“Not allowing my husband to be with me while I was miscarrying our child. I called my twin brother because I knew my husband was busy doing something else, and by the time my husband got there, I had already miscarried and they had me back for surgery. Then I didn’t take his feelings into account. Everything was all about me and my pain. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever asked him how he felt about it. Then I pushed him away, asking him to leave our home, and I didn’t invite him back - even when I knew I needed help.”
I stop because I’m getting emotional, and I’m not one to show emotions in public. But isn’t that why I’m here?
Deciding to let myself be vulnerable is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but it feels good as I purge myself of all the feelings.
“He told me he loved me, and I told him those words didn’t fix anything.”
There are some audible gasps through the room.
“The gasps you heard aren’t just for what you said to him,” another person in the program says. “It’s for the pain you must have been in, in order to say it.”
My lip trembles, so I pull it between my teeth and look down at my hands, nodding profusely as those tears come and they don’t stop. “I was, I was in so much pain, and it felt like nobody could see it and everybody could see it at the same time. I hated myself, I hated him, God, our child that didn’t make it, our child that did - I hated everything, and I just couldn’t seem to make myself stop.”
I take a deep, cleansing breath, feeling the weight that’s pushed my shoulders down for far too long lessen.
“Do you still hate?” the therapist asks quietly.
“No, not anymore. Clarity has been slow in coming, but I’m beginning to learn we’re all on a path. The directions we choose on the path determine our reactions, and my reaction has always been about me.”
There are murmurs all around the group.
“That’s a hard thing to admit.”
“You’ve come to that conclusion early; you’re doing great work here.”
As I sit back against the chair, watching and listening to everyone else talk about what they’ve gone through and why they’re here, I can’t help but feel proud.
Of myself.
Of these people.
And of the way I’ve given myself over to the program.
Old Mandy would have rejected all of this, but this Mandy? She wants her family back, her life back, and she wants to go home an improved version of herself.
Chapter Nine
Dalton
My hand shakes violently as I pull the envelope out of the mail slot at the clubhouse. It’s addressed to me, and I can see
