Page 70 of Brutal for It
Dr. Hart nods. “You’re afraid the past will define you.”
“Yes.”
“And what does the future look like when you let yourself imagine it?”
I swallow hard. “Safe. Quiet. Full of laughter. A house where no one yells, no one hides. Tommy reading bedtime stories in that low rumble voice of his. A kitchen that always smells like coffee bacon, and sometimes burned pancakes.”
She smiles. “That sounds like peace.”
“It does.” I glance up. “Is it okay that I want that?”
“It’s more than okay,” she encourages. “It’s proof you’re healing.”
Her words sink into me slowly. Healing. Not fixed. Not perfect. Just growing into better.
For the rest of the session, we talk about grounding, breathing, routine, writing in my journal when the doubts come. She asks me to write a letter to my future self before our next appointment. “Tell her what you want her to remember,” she instructs. “Hope needs somewhere to live.”
When I leave, the sky is soft gray, spring pushing through the last of winter’s chill. I drive home with the windows cracked to let the fresh air in, wind tangling my hair.
Tommy’s truck is in the driveway when I pull in, but he’s not inside. I find a note on the counter in his familiar handwriting:
Clubhouse tonight. Come when you’re ready. No rush. I love you.
I smile, tracing the words. He’s always giving me room to choose.
I take a shower, pull on a simple dress one that doesn’t hide my growing belly but doesn’t cling to it either. When I catch my reflection, I pause. There’s something in my eyes I haven’t seen in years, peace and softness.
For the first time, I look like a woman who belongs in her own life.
The clubhouse parking lot is full when I arrive. Bikes gleam under the setting sun, chrome catching the light. The sound of laughter spills out from inside — high and familiar, the kind that only happens when people are happy and unguarded.
When I step through the door, it hits me like a wave.
“Surprise!”
For a second, I just stand there blinking, because it takes my brain a moment to catch up with my heart.
Streamers in gold and pink hang from the rafters. Balloons tied to chairs. A long table covered in flowers and wrapped gifts. In the center, a cake that reads Welcome future Mrs. Oleander and baby O.
I cover my mouth, tears instantly blurring my vision.
Doll grins from across the room, her blonde hair in a bun on top of her head, wearing a glittery shirt. “Told ya she’d cry!”
Sass, Tommy’s mom, wearing her own bedazzled shirt, a soft strength in her eyes, steps forward with open arms. “Oh, sweetheart,” she greets, hugging me tight. “You didn’t think we’d let you have a baby or get married to my boy without a proper shower, did you?”
Jenni approaches, “got ya, sis.” She beams with pride. “Love you and so excited to celebrate you today.”
I can barely speak. “You did all this?”
“All of us,” Jenni shares, waving toward the crowd of women. “You’re family, honey. We take care of our own.”
Behind them, I spot familiar faces wives, girlfriends, daughters of the club. Some I’ve met, others I’ve only seen in passing. Every single one of them is smiling.
“Come sit, honey,” Sass says, guiding me to a chair decorated with ribbons. “You look pale. Bet you haven’t eaten enough.”
Before I can protest, a plate appears in front of me sandwiches, fruit, cake. Doll presses a glass of ginger ale into my hand. “No alcohol, promise. Just the fancy bubbles.”
I laugh through my tears. “You guys are too much.”
