Page 62 of The Edge Of Us

"Do you still struggle with your mental health now?"

"Every day," I said, turning back to her. "Some days are good. Some days I wake up and the world is soft. My kids laugh, the coffee is strong, and I can smile without trying. Other days... I still hear things. I still feel the panic sit on my chest. But I fight. I fight because Astrid calls me 'mama' in the sweetest little voice, and Kyle tells me I’m his best friend. I fight because they need me to, and maybe... I need me too."

There was a long pause. Elena’s eyes were glossy.

"What would you say to someone out there... struggling the way you did?"

I swallowed hard. "Don’t hide. Don’t let shame keep you in silence. I know it feels like you’re broken. But you’re not. You’re hurting. And there’s a difference. And most of all—you are not alone."

She clicked her pen off and set it down. "That was beautiful. Raw. I think you’re going to help a lot of people today."

I looked toward the kitchen, where a framed photo of Kyle and Astrid sat beside a jar of flowers Brittany brought over yesterday.

"That’s all I want," I said. "To help someone not feel as alone as I did."

And maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something new. Not the spotlight, not the cover of Vogue—but the courage to be seen, exactly as I was. Flawed, fractured, healing—and finally, speaking the truth.

No more pretending.

Just me.

Chapter 36

Allen

The moment her face lit up the screen, I knew I wasn’t ready.

I had sat down with a glass of scotch, fully prepared to brush off whatever polished, PR-coached responses Vogue had pulled from her. But Corine—my Corine—spoke with a rawness that shredded me.

“I was diagnosed with chronic psychosis at birth,” she said, her voice steady but soft. “It got worse after I had my kids… especially after Astrid. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I was living in a house full of mirrors and couldn’t recognize my reflection in any of them.”

I paused the video and leaned forward, elbows digging into my knees. I couldn’t breathe. My throat was tight, my vision blurred. I ran a hand through my hair and pressed the pause button again.

Play.

“Some mornings, I’d wake up, look at Astrid or Kyle and wonder if they’d be better off without me. I tried to make that thought a reality… more than once.”

Her voice cracked. Mine did too, except I wasn’t speaking.

I had to pause again. The room around me faded. My penthouse, my money, my success—none of it mattered.

I broke her.

I broke the woman I loved more than anything in this godforsaken world.

She went on to talk about Brittany, Sylvia, Tate. The friends she made during her stay at the facility. The people who saw her in her rawest, ugliest moments and still held her hand. The people who did what I was supposed to do. Be there. Understand. Stay.

She said, “The worst part wasn’t the illness or the betrayal. It was the silence. Being surrounded by people and still feeling completely alone.”

I couldn't hold it together. I slammed the glass down, shattering it on the floor. Scotch soaked into the Persian rug. I didn’t care.

I sat there, watching the rest of the interview in broken pieces, letting her voice burn through every layer of pride I had left. I saw her eyes glow when she spoke about Kyle’s obsession with airplanes and how Astrid liked to sit in front of the mirror and brush her curls with her tiny hands, pretending to be a princess. That same mirror she once hated.

She was healing.

And I had no part in it.

I failed her. Not just in the ways people talk about in whispers. I failed her in all the silent ways too. I didn’t notice. I didn’t ask. I didn’t show up.

---