Chapter 303

Heading to my therapist's office, a familiar sense of apprehension settled over me. The gun incident still loomed heavy in my mind, and as much as that had corrupted my sense of stability, I wasn’t sure how wise it was to bring that to therapy so soon. The chilly winter air stung my cheeks as I approached the building, and I couldn't shake the feeling of unease that clung to me like a second skin.

Dr. Morrison's office, with its soft lighting and comforting ambiance, was a refuge of sorts. As I entered, she greeted me with a warm smile that reached her kind eyes. "Evie, it's good to see you again," she said.

Returning the smile, I mumbled a polite greeting. Despite the familiarity of the surroundings, an invisible barrier stood between us today. Dr. Morrison seemed genuinely pleased to have me back, but her perceptive eyes caught the subtle signs of my jumbled thoughts.

"You seem a bit shaken up today. Is everything okay?" Dr. Morrison inquired, raising an eyebrow.

I shrugged, attempting to brush off her observation. "Just the winter weather getting to me, I guess. Seasonal depression, you know?"

She nodded, though the skepticism lingered in her gaze. "Alright, let's talk about it if you feel comfortable. We can explore whatever is on your mind today."

The session commenced, the air tinged with the weight of unspoken concerns. I fidgeted with the hem of my sweater, struggling to find the words. Dr. Morrison's patience allowed me the time to gather my thoughts.

"I had a fight with my mom," I confessed, breaking the uneasy silence.

Dr. Morrison's expression softened with understanding. "Families have disagreements. It's a normal part of relationships. What happened?"

I sighed, recounting the heated exchange with my mother over trivial matters that had escalated into a full-blown argument. "It was silly stuff, really. But tensions have been high lately."

She nodded, encouraging me to delve deeper. "And how did it end?"

"We patched things up, but it's not the same," I admitted. "There are flaws, cracks in our relationship that weren't there before, like it wasn’t fragile enough."

Dr. Morrison leaned forward, her gaze compassionate. "Change can be unsettling, Evie. It's a process, and relationships often go through ups and downs. What do you think caused this rift between you and your mom?"

I hesitated, grappling with the emotions that bubbled beneath the surface. "I think it's the aftermath of the Bruce incident. She's scared for me, worried about my safety. But her way of expressing it just pushes me away because I don’t know her like that."

Dr. Morrison nodded thoughtfully. "It's understandable that such an event would have an impact on your relationship. Have you tried talking to her about your feelings regarding the incident?"

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "I've tried, but it always turns into an argument. She can't seem to understand that I have my own thoughts and emotions about everything that happened between us, including her abandonment. She takes it personally."

The therapist's gaze remained steady. "Communication is key, Evie. Perhaps we can explore some strategies to help both of you express your concerns without it escalating into a fight."

As the conversation unfolded, Dr. Morrison's questions led us to another sensitive topic – my recent interview with Bette Frieman. She asked, "Could the tension with your mother also have seomthing to do with that interview you did recently?"

A heavy silence hung in the air as I mulled over her question. Finally, I admitted, "Yes, it does. I regret exposing my mother to the public like that. It wasn't fair to her, and I should have considered the consequences. I was just unnerved by…some of the things I found out about her."

Dr. Morrison's gaze remained steady, her tone reassuring. "Regret is a powerful emotion, Evie. It shows empathy and a recognition of the impact your actions can have on others. What made you decide to do the interview in the first place?"

I sighed, feeling the weight of my choices. "I wanted to share my story, help others going through similar struggles. But I didn't anticipate the toll it would take on my mom."

"Did exposing your mother force her to see the error of her ways, despite your regret?"

I hesitated, the bitter taste of regret lingering on my tongue. "No," I admitted. "If anything, it only made her angrier, more defensive. It wasn't until Stella's death that things began to shift, and she seemed willing to make amends. I guess death makes people sentimental."

Dr. Morrison nodded understandingly, recognizing the complex dynamics at play. "Grief has a way of altering perspectives. Now, you mentioned a significant concern regarding some of the things you found out about your mother. Let's talk about that, if you don’t mind."

The weight of the revelation settled heavily in the room as I recounted the discovery. "I found a gun. In her purse. I don't understand why she would need one. It terrifies me, Dr. Morrison. What if she's involved with dangerous people from her past?"

Dr. Morrison considered my words, her tone measured. "Evie, it's important to consider the possibility that your mother might have it for self-defense. People carry firearms for various reasons, especially if they feel vulnerable."

Fear tightened my chest. "But why now? Why keep it a secret from me? It feels like there's something she's not telling me, something more sinister."

Dr. Morrison attempted to rationalize it. "Self-defense can be a sensitive topic. Maybe she was afraid of how you would react. It doesn't necessarily mean she's involved in something dangerous. It's crucial to communicate with her and understand her perspective."

I sighed, uncertainty clouding my thoughts. "I've tried, but every conversation turns into an argument. It's like she's hiding something, and it scares me."

The therapist's eyes held a gentle understanding. "Evie, fear can cloud our judgment. It might be helpful to approach this with an open mind. Have an honest conversation with your mother, expressing your concerns without judgment."

The session concluded with a mix of clarity and lingering unease. Dr. Morrison's guidance offered a lifeline, but the unanswered questions still loomed. As I left the therapist's office, my mind raced with thoughts of my mother, the gun, and the mysteries concealed beneath the surface.

I hadn’t even gotten to the subject of Timothy yet, which I was glad she’d left alone.

Heading home, my next destination was Timothy's apartment. Concern for him tugged at my heart, and I wanted to check on him after our encounter with the police. I approached his door and knocked, hoping to find some comfort and warmth by his side.

The door swung open, revealing Timothy's irritated expression. "Come in quickly," he grumbled, his tone sharp.

I stepped into his apartment, noting the tension in the air. "H-Hi. Is something going on?" I asked, shrugging off my coat as he marched off.

Timothy ran a hand through his hair, frustration etched on his face. "Aria told me what happened."