Sprawled across the infamous "Confession Couch," I exhale deeply, my gaze darting across the room. It's comfortable, yet confrontational—perfectly summing up my relationship with Dr. Simon Farnsworth. No, not the Simon Cowell, but close enough with his no-nonsense British demeanor and the knack for cutting right through the bullshit. The couch itself is a wide, plush masterpiece in navy blue, deep enough to sink into but firm enough that you can't hide from your own truths. Out of all the therapists I've worked with—count them, six—Simon is the one I've stuck with the longest. Maybe it's the couch, or maybe it's him.

"Let's discuss your mother today, Noah," Simon suggests, adjusting his glasses in a very Simon-esque way.

I stiffen. "I don't want to talk about it," I snap more sharply than intended.

The air in the room feels heavier, laden with the weight of memories I'd rather leave buried. My mother, the phantom of my childhood, stumbling in late at night, reeking of alcohol and burnt heroin. Those nights turned into days, then weeks, then months of absence until they stretched into the gaping years that brought us to today. Five years without a word until last week when an unknown number sent me a text that I've avoided like the plague.

The text bubbles up in my mind, unbidden: "Hi Noah, it's Mom. I'm sorry for everything, and I've been working hard to get better. Please let's meet and talk soon."

"No," I'd told myself, but now Simon is insisting.

"We've talked about your mother before, but you've never said more than a few sentences.

God, just reading it in my head stirs up a cocktail of emotions I'm not ready to deal with, not now, maybe not ever. But Simon's not one to let things go easily.

"Your reluctance to speak about her is more telling than anything you could say," Simon points out, his voice firm yet not unkind. "Ignoring a wound won't heal it."

Rolling my eyes, I sit up, crossing my arms defensively. "Look, Simon, you're great and all, but I'm not about to unpack years of neglect and disappointment in one hour just because you think it's time."

He nods, unperturbed by my defensiveness. "It's never just about thinking it's time, Noah. It's about knowing you're ready, even if you don't feel it."

He pauses, allowing his words to sink in before continuing. "And you've made so much progress, but there are still things you haven't touched on, things you're avoiding."

A chill sweeps through my body, and I can feel the goosebumps rising. My arms tighten against my chest.

This hits harder than I expect. Am I ready? Part of me doubts that. My father, the ever-stern police officer, had done everything in his power to keep me in private school, to keep me on track. He was the rock in the chaos my mother brought into our lives. He and my mother had once harbored dreams of me becoming a lawyer or a surgeon, inspired by my early love for words and Emily Dickinson's poetry. I'd clung to those dreams, driven by a desire to maybe, just maybe, impress her one day. But she was never there to see any of it.

I'm silent for a moment, mulling over the bitterness that coats my tongue at the thought of her. "Mom sounds sour on my tongue, Simon. Like spoiled milk. And I've had enough of that to last a lifetime."

"Yet, here she is, reaching out. What are you afraid of, Noah?" he probes, his tone gentle yet unyielding.

I scoff, a dry laugh escaping. "What isn't there to be afraid of, Simon? I'm afraid she'll come back, and my life will be upended again," I confess. "I'm afraid she'll break my father's heart."

Simon leans forward, his eyes locking onto mine. "Is it that she thinks it can fix things, or that you wish it could?"

I pause, struck by the thought. Damn him and his piercing insights. "Maybe a bit of both," I admit reluctantly.

"Then perhaps it's time to consider what you want from this, beyond the anger and the hurt," Simon suggests.

The timer dings. "That's it for today," he says, rising and walking to the door. "Think about it, Noah. Sometimes, the only thing we can change is ourselves."

With that, I stand up and stride out, my thoughts heavy. It's not me I'm worried about Simon, it's her.