Page 117 of The Silence Between

“Duh,” she replied, rolling her eyes in that pre-teen way she'd recently perfected. “But Ethan said not to make a big deal when you got home. That you'd probably be tired and need normal, not a parade.”

I smiled, feeling a unexpected rush of gratitude toward Ethan for preparing them, for understanding what I would need without me having to say it.

Mari appeared behind Sophie, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Welcome home,” she said simply, crossing the room to give me a quick hug. “Dinner's almost ready if you're hungry.”

Diego emerged from his bedroom, hovering awkwardly in the hallway for a moment before nodding at me. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” I replied, not pushing for more. The therapy sessions had helped me understand that his distance wasn't rejection—it was self-protection, fear of losing someone he'd already almost lost once.

There was no grand celebration of my return, no banners or emotional speeches. Instead, they simply absorbed me back into the flow of their evening routine, making space for me without making me the center of attention. It was exactly what I needed—to feel like I belonged without feeling like everything depended on me.

I moved through the apartment, noticing small changes that had occurred in my absence. A new chore chart on the refrigerator, color-coded and detailed. A stack of library books on the coffee table that hadn't been there before. A second toothbrush in my bathroom that could only be Ethan's.

“We moved some stuff around,” Mari explained, catching me looking at the reorganized living room bookshelf. “Diego needed more space for his school books, and Sophie wanted to display her art projects somewhere other than the refrigerator.”

“It looks good,” I said, genuinely meaning it. “You guys did a great job keeping things together.”

“We had help,” Diego said from the couch, where he was flipping through a textbook. “Ethan's been here almost every day.”

The evening unfolded with a simple dinner around our small table, conversation flowing naturally between topics. No one treated me like I was made of glass, but no one expected me to immediately resume my old responsibilities either. Mari shared updates about household matters without either apologizing for taking charge or immediately handing everything back to me. Diego mentioned an upcoming math test with his typical nonchalance, but actually answered when I asked if he felt prepared. Sophie chattered about her art class, showing me a new technique she'd learned for shading.

It wasn't perfect. But it was real, and that felt more important than perfect.

As I lay in my own bed that night, staring at the familiar cracks in my ceiling, I felt a cautious optimism taking root. The family I'd returned to wasn't the same one I'd left—they'd grown, adapted, learned to function with me as a part of the system rather than its foundation. And maybe, just maybe, that was exactly what all of us needed.

* * *

“How areyou feeling about the medication so far?” Dr. Winters asked, his notepad balanced on his knee as always.

I considered the question, trying to find the right words to describe the subtle but significant changes I'd noticed over the past two weeks since returning home.

“It's not dramatic,” I said finally. “I was worried it would make me feel numb or foggy, but it's more like... the volume's been turned down on the worst thoughts. They're still there sometimes, but they don't immediately spiral into catastrophe.”

“That's a good sign,” he nodded. “The goal isn't to eliminate all negative thoughts or feelings—that would be unrealistic. It's to make them manageable enough that you can use the coping strategies we've discussed.”

“Like the breathing exercises and the thought records?”

“Exactly. Speaking of which, how has it been practicing those outside the hospital?”

I smiled ruefully. “Harder than I expected. It's one thing to do deep breathing exercises in your office. It's another to remember them when Sophie spills juice all over her math homework right before school.”

Dr. Winters returned the smile. “That's why we practice. Eventually it becomes more automatic.”

Our session continued, covering my transition back home, my return to work, the still-pending custody hearing. The twice-weekly therapy had been one of the non-negotiable conditions of my discharge, and though finding the time wasn't easy, I was beginning to understand its value beyond just crisis management.

“I wanted to talk about the boundaries we discussed,” I said as our time wound down. “The self-care blocks on the schedule.”

“Have you been maintaining them?”

“Yes, but...” I hesitated, feeling almost guilty for bringing it up. “I don't know what to do with them.”

Dr. Winters looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I've spent so long filling every minute with work or family responsibilities that I don't actually know what to do with time that's just for me. The first week, I just sat on the balcony and stared at nothing for two hours because I couldn't think of anything else.”

Instead of the judgment I half-expected, Dr. Winters nodded with understanding. “That's actually quite common. When we've defined ourselves entirely through productivity and caretaking, it can be disorienting to suddenly have space for personal enjoyment or relaxation.”

“So what do I do?”

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