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I’m not even sure when or how this happened. I suspect it was such a slow and steady decline that neither one of us even noticed it happening. Life became so full of other things, something had to go. Especially after I took to my bed for two weeks and had to reevaluate the way I spent my time. I supposeeliminating time with Jesus seemed like the thing that was least likely to affect the image I’d perfected of being a woman who could do it all.

What a short-sighted mistake.

One I’m now paying for with a marriage in tatters.

My sobs finally slow, but Dorothy continues to rub my back, waiting for me to calm completely. I take a deep, shuddery breath.

“I’m so sorry,” I say hoarsely. “I’m not usually like this.”

“Of course you’re not,” Dorothy says kindly. “That was quite a fight the two of you had. Anyone would have cried. Besides, tears don’t faze me. Why, I once had a patient cry through two whole sessions before she ever even said a word.”

Out of nowhere a bottled water appears in my face. I look up to see Mick is the source.

“Drink up,” he says. “You’ll feel better.”

I take it gratefully, noting that he’s already untwisted the cap for me, which is good because my body still feels weak and shaky. I’m not sure I could’ve managed. I take a long sip, letting the cool liquid soothe my dry throat.

The three of us sit in silence for a few minutes. As the fear-induced adrenaline fades from my body, awkwardness pricks away at my skin in its place. Once again these two veritable strangers have been privy to the darkest secrets of my marriage. Worse, they’re not at this retreat because they too need marriage help—they’re here to help the rest of us sad sacks. Their marriage is so great they spend their time teaching other people how to also have great marriages.

I hate that now they know what a failure I am in that regard. Especially since they don’t know about all of the things I’m so successful at. Their only representation of me is as a woman who messed up her marriage so badly her husband stormed out on her.

“Now, Jill,” Dorothy chides gently, “I can sense you’re on the edge of spiraling into a cycle of shame. Don’t you dare let shame keep you from growing. Unresolved shame is nothing but the devil’s attempt to separate you from the truth and power of God’s love for you. No, what you need is conviction. Conviction, confession, and repentance.”

“How can I repent of being a failure?” I say before I can think better of yet another admission.

Dorothy’s brow softens further. “Honey, if being a failure is what you think you’ve done wrong here, then perhaps some further introspection is needed.”

Her soft brow and tone do nothing to lessen the blow of her words. I don’t like what she’s insinuating. I don’t like it one bit.

“Look,” I say defensively, “I wasn’t really going to sabotage his campaign. It was just a stupid idea I had for about five minutes.” Or a whole night—but I was sleeping for most of that, so it basically rounds down to five minutes.

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me, dear.” Dorothy has the gall to look completely unruffled—and maybe even a little amused.

“You’re certainly making me feel like I do.”

“That’s the therapist’s curse,” Mick stage-whispers. “Or gifting, I suppose. Depends which angle you look at it from.”

Oh right. Dorothy is a therapist. Perhaps now is the time to tell her that the last time I met with a therapist it didn’t go well. By the end of the third session it was apparent to me that the woman I was talking to had an obsession with my childhood. And my problems are now—not then.

I had a great childhood, thank you very much.

“Did you ever stop to consider that there’s a possibility you struggle to be so perfect, maybe even to try to be enough for those around you, because of your parents’ secondary infertility? That perhaps you, a young child, somehowmiscategorized their struggle to have more children as you not being enough for them?”

The question she asked me that last therapy session, the one that still haunts me in my low points, pops up out of nowhere and my eyes shut against the onslaught of emotion.

How off-base was she, asking me a thing like that?

I don’t struggle to be enough for people. Poppycock, balderdash, and other stronger words for nonsense.

It’s completely normal for parents to want to have more than one child.

Goodness. To think I’d be so short-sighted, even as a child, to think that my parents wanting more children was a me problem.

I think it’s obvious why I never went back to see that delusional woman. Doctor Friedman. More like DoctorFraudman.

“Don’t look so off-put,” Dorothy says with a light laugh. “Therapists aren’t the enemy, you know, despite what perfectionist personalities tend to believe.”

“You really don’t know me well enough to say whether or not I’m a perfectionist.” Even as I speak my fingers go to smooth a crease in my shirt that I just sensed. Dorothy’s eyes track the movement.