Page 34 of The Breaking Point

He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he’s listening. Not waiting to fix me. Just waiting for me to keep going.

“I had my siblings. They were everything to me. My brother was thirteen when I was born, my sister ten. They were more like second parents. Walked me to school. Helped with homework. Read me stories. They loved me.”

My throat tightens. “But they left too. My brother turned eighteen and left for college abroad. Then it was internships. Jobs. Before I knew it, he was just… gone. And my sister left when I was eight. I didn’t have a phone, so I couldn’t really keep in touch. They both disappeared in pieces.”

He gives a slow nod. Still not speaking. Still holding space.

“I managed. I did okay. But then…” I look down at my hands. “On my sixteenth birthday, my parents forgot. Completely forgot. I blew up. Told them how much it hurt, how I deserved better. And their solution wasn’t to apologize. It wasn’t to try. It was to send me to live with my grandmother. Then they went traveling. They just… left me.”

I pause, swallowing hard. “The thing is, what hurts the most is the fact that they stayed long enough to raise my siblings. And theywantedto. They loved raising them. The stories I’ve heard make them sound like such great parents. But I didn’t get that. I got silence from my father, and resentment from my mother.”

I glance up at Dr. Brett, then back down. “And I know this sounds crazy, but my mother’s resentment hurt less than his silence. At least she cared enough to feel something. At least now she’s trying. My father… he’s just comfortable with his silence. It makes me think maybe the fault reallyisin me.”

I look up, voice barely there. “They left me. Aiden cheated on me. Maybe I’m the one who just isn’t enough.”

He lets me cry, lets me feel before leaning in and asking. “What was life like at your grandmother’s?”

I don’t mean to smile, but I do. “It was good. Really good. She lived in Texas, we were in California, so I hadn’t seen her much. But she was thrilled when I came. She asked questions. She cared about my friends. Gave me rules. A curfew. She made me feel like I mattered.”

“She took care of you?” he asks gently.

“Yes,” I say. “Even when I got pregnant. She didn’t yell. She didn’t make me feel like I’d ruined everything. She just… helped.”

Dr. Brett tilts his head. “What if your parents, in their own way, knew they couldn’t give you what you needed? What if they didn’t send you away to punish you, but to give you the care they couldn’t provide?”

The question takes the breath right out of me. I take a beat considering it.

“You think that’s what they were doing?” I ask.

“I think sometimes,” he says, voice steady, “parents make decisions that look selfish or careless, but are rooted in their limitations. I’m not saying it didn’t hurt. It did. Your pain is real. But reframing the narrative doesn’t mean forgetting. It just means softening the edges of how tightly you’ve held it.”

I let out a long breath. My shoulders ache from everything I’ve been carrying.

He continues, “Your grandmother gave you the structure you needed. You were seen. You were safe. That shaped you. And now you’ve spent your adult life trying to recreate that same structure for your own family but this time, you’re the one in charge.”

I nod slowly.

“Kate, your instinct to protect and provide isn’t wrong. But it doesn’t have to come at the cost of your own well-being. You don’t have to carry it all alone to be worthy of staying. You are enough”

I swallow. Hard. “It’s just scary. Letting go.”

“Of course it is. But you’re not eight anymore. You’re not sixteen. You’re not powerless. Let’s work on letting go without disappearing. Consider the possibility that your parents didn’t leavebecauseof you, they leftforyou, so you could have the life you deserved.”

He leans forward just slightly. “You’ve carried this story a long time. And I don’t want you to forget it or force it into a neat little box. But I do want to invite you to imagine what your story could look like now, if it didn’t have to be rooted in abandonment.”

I look up at him, unsure what to say. Unsure if I even believe I can do that.

He softens his tone even more. “Would you be open to writing a letter? Not to send. Just for yourself. One to your younger self; the sixteen-year-old who felt like everyone left. Tell her what she deserved to hear. That she was loved. That she mattered. That none of it was her fault.”

My eyes sting. I blink hard.

“And maybe,” he adds gently, “if you feel ready, a second letter. To your parents. Not to accuse or punish. Just to say what you needed to say. Give the grief some room to speak.”

I nod, voice gone, chest full of things I don’t have words for yet.

“That’s enough for today,” he says softly. “You did good work.”

For the first time in a long time, I believe him.

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