He says, “She knows she hates you – but she understands she needs you.”
He pauses to rethink this declaration. “Well, maybe ‘hate’ is not the right word. Maybe what I mean is that she’s just really angry with you. ”
I interrupt, “It’s okay, Jonathan. I believe it’s the right word. Please continue.”
And I close my eyes to hear this therapist I’ve never met tell me through the phone all about the incomprehensibly tangled story of a broken bond between a mother and a child.
“I see glimmers of progress,” he offers in conclusion.
But I know he doesn’t mean for me.
So I go back to my work, and I work extra late that night to make up for the sadness that gnaws away my productivity.