Page 132 of Call You Mine
“It’s not,” I answer, bringing her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to the skin. “You’re not,” I add. “This is nothing we can’t handle.”
She offers me a small smile before turning back to Dr. Abbie.
“Do you have any questions?” the therapist asks.
I shake my head. “Like I said, I’m willing to do everything I can to support Ava with this.”
She cocks her head, her eyes assessing. “And there’s a fine line to all of this,” she highlights. “It goes without saying that it’s important you also take care of yourself, too. Watching someone go through this type of therapy with this type of mental illness can stir up your own anxiety and discomfort. Supporting them doesn’t mean ignoring your own emotional needs.”
I swallow, my face feeling warm all of a sudden. I feel exposed in a way that I’ve only ever felt in my own therapy sessions. I run a hand through my hair. “I understand.”
Dr. Abbie continues, “We need Ava to feel supported but not like you are stepping in to save her.”
The words hit hard, reopening a wound I feel like will never fully heal.
I’ve learned over these last months that there’s somethingdeep inside of me that feels like it’s my job to save the people I love—Ava, Georgie, my mom, my brothers, my friends.
And the overwhelming guilt that I feel is always lingering, faint enough that I can ignore it, but still there, stems from that place.
I want to take care of them—to save them from the hurt, the hardship, theworld—but I’ve been doing it to the point that I’ve sacrificed myself.
But Dr. Abbie’s words offer a new way of thinking—I can support my loved ones with the intensity and urgency that I want, but I can’t cross that line of doing it all for them at the price of myself.
Saving them, as Dr. Abbie puts it, doesn’t help them.
And I’ve seen with my brothers and my mom first-hand that it truly only hurts us all in the end.
CHAPTER 48
AVA
Goingfrom the last week of the second trimester to my first week of the third trimester was like flipping a switch
All of a sudden, I understood all the warnings—especially from Rumi—about how the third trimester is thinking you can’t get any bigger, but somehow being proven wrong with every week that goes by.
I’m thirty weeks today, and I officially can’t see my feet anymore. I am constantly bumping into things because I forget how much my stomach sticks out.
And the baby is about to double in weight in these last ten weeks.
We just finished up with Georgie’s last soccer game of the season, and the AC in Anderson’s car is blowing directly into my face, yet I’m still sweating in the August heat.
We’re on the way to a local ice cream shop, where the team and all the girls’ families are meeting not only to celebrate today’s win but also to commemorate an undefeated season.
I might be biased, but Georgie deserves an MVP award for how amazing she did as the team’s goalie—all her life, she’s had to always be watching, always be bracing, quietlycarrying pressure on her shoulders that shouldn’t have been hers to begin with.
It’s a role she took in stride, and one I am so proud of her for taking on.
Both for her team and for herself.
Pulling into the parking lot, Georgie hops out of the car before Anderson can even turn off the car, running to meet up with some girls from the team standing in line.
“You made it through your first season as a soccer mom,” Anderson says, cutting the ignition and turning to look at me.
“Couldn’t have done it without you,” I tease, even though I mean every word.
I catch myself watching him longer than I mean to—really watching him.
The way his hand lingers on the steering wheel, the faint creases next to his eyes that never fully go away, like he’s smiled so many times to leave permanent marks on his face.
