Page 18 of The Breaking Point

I swallow. “I’m Kate. Last night was my ten-year anniversary. And the day I found out that my husband slept with a stripper at his bachelor party.”

The words hang there.

“I don’t know what to do. We have two kids. He apologized. But I don’t know if that’s enough. Can anyone here tell me what to do?”

Dan says, “It was ten years ago.”

Jackie cuts in. “So what? She’s just supposed to forgive and forget because he hid it well?”

Leena asks, “Do you want to forgive him?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I still love him. But the version of him I kept in my head, the perfect husband, that version’s gone. Every flaw I ignored is screaming at me now.”

Trish says, “Infidelity doesn’t have to be the end of a marriage. But once trust breaks, it’s hard, very hard to get it back. But it can be done. You need to ask yourself, can you trust this man again?”

I nod, but the truth is I don’t know. I sit back, listening to others speak, but their voices blur. I’m stuck in my own head, spiralling through love and anger and confusion.

I love him. But I can’t go back to pretending he’s perfect.

And I won’t pretend to be okay anymore.

When the meeting ends, I don’t rush out. Most people linger, chatting in soft voices, offering each other advice or making loose plans to grab coffee next time. I drift toward the back of the room and stand by the window, pretending to look out at the cars in the lot, but really I’m just trying to breathe. The sunlight is too bright, and everything feels a little too sharp, like I’ve been peeled open and haven’t quite figured out how to close up again.

Trish walks over and stops beside me, holding a small notebook in her hand. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there with me, watching the parking lot fill and empty as people come and go.

Then, gently, she says, “If you want, I have contacts that are available in case you need any help. People from the meeting, therapists, divorce lawyers. We kind of have everything.”

I don’t answer right away. I stare out the window, watching a woman unlock her car, pause, then lean against the driver’s door taking a beat. My throat tightens.

Finally, I whisper, “Can I have the therapist contact?”

Trish nods and flips through her little notebook. Her handwriting is neat and slanted, the pages filled with names and numbers and short notes. She tears one off and hands it to me.

“Her name’s Claudia. She owns a practice and is local. Been doing this a long time. She’s blunt, but she’s kind. You won’t scare her.”

I take the paper like it’s something fragile. My hand closes around it before I can think too hard. “Thanks.”

“You don’t have to wait until you’re falling apart to call her,” Trish says. “Some people think therapy is a last resort, but it’s not. Sometimes it’s just someone to hold a flashlight while you figure out which direction you’re heading.”

I nod, throat too tight to speak. I don’t trust my voice not to break.

Trish doesn’t push. She just pats my shoulder once, warm and steady, then walks away.

I stand there a few more minutes before I finally make myself move. Outside, the sun feels softer, like the heat has cooled just a little. I slide into Quinn’s car and shut the door, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. The slip of paper is still in my palm.

Claudia. I repeat the name in my head until it feels less foreign. I tuck the note into my bag. Not the glove compartment. Not the cup holder. My bag. I want it close.

I don’t call her right away.

But I don’t throw the number away, either.

Chapter 8

I called her.

It happened at Quinn’s house, an hour later. She’d already left, catching a ride to the place she’s interning at and yes, apparently therapists have to intern too. I’d been half-heartedly scrolling through my phone, not even reading anything, just moving my thumb for the sake of it.

I was just gonna input the number but without thinking, I tapped the contact. It rang. A receptionist picked up. I was fully prepared to hang up or say I dialled the wrong number. But I didn’t.

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