I blinked.
My throat tightened. My heart went out to Abby. “I want to be a mom, Sash,” she said suddenly.
“More than anything. But I missed my moment. I spent years trying to make something out of nothing.
And now I’m divorced, 37, and starting over. And it’s terrifying.”
I reached for her hand. She looked surprised.
“You need help, Abby,” I said gently. “Not judgment. Not shame.
Not pity. You need someone who can help you carry this. It starts with the grief and acceptance of your dad’s death.”
Her eyes welled up.
“I know a therapist. She’s warm, smart, and good with a mess,” I chuckled. “I had post-partum depression after Ella.
She helped save me back then.”
She nodded, brushing a tear off her cheek with the back of her hand. “Do you hate me?” she asked, reaching for a napkin. “I don’t hate you,” I added softly.
“I was scared and confused. I didn’t know what was happening.”
“I hated me enough for both of us,” she said with a sad smile. That night, I sat alone in my bedroom.
I could hear Michael and the girls watching a movie. I picked up my phone and tapped open a message thread with Abby. “Cordelia’s address and number, as promised.
She helped me find my footing once. I think she’d be good for you, too.”
A few minutes passed. “Thank you, S.
I’ll make an appointment. I’m nervous but hopeful.”
I set the phone down and looked around the room. I had so much.
Somewhere, Abby was starting over. Not as a shadow, but as herself. And me?
I’m still here. Still Sasha. Still whole.
