Thalia's POV
I arrive at Dr. Morrison's office thirty minutes early.
My hands won't stop shaking. I've reread her text message seventeen times: Ten o'clock. We need to talk about changes.
Changes are bad. Changes mean losing control. Changes mean everything falls apart.
I pace the waiting room, my sneakers making soft squeaking sounds on the polished floor. What kind of change could she mean? Is she retiring? Did I say something wrong during last night's panic attack? Is she dropping me as a patient because I'm too broken to fix?
The door to her office opens at 9:58.
Thalia, you're early. Dr. Morrison smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. Come in.
I follow her inside, my stomach twisting into knots. The office that usually feels safe suddenly feels like a trap. I sit in my usual chair, gripping the armrests.
Dr. Morrison settles across from me, and for the first time in three years, she looks nervous.
You're scaring me, I blurt out. Just tell me what's wrong.
She takes a deep breath. Nothing's wrong, exactly. But you're right—we need to talk about something important. She pauses. Thalia, I'm pregnant.
The words don't make sense at first. I blink at her, processing.
Pregnant? But that's... that's good news, right? Congratulations?
Thank you. Her smile is genuine now, but sad. However, it means I'll be taking maternity leave. Starting in two weeks.
The floor drops out from under me.
Two weeks? My voice sounds strangled. But—but I need you. You can't just leave.
I know this is difficult
Difficult? I'm on my feet now, pacing. You're the only person who understands what happened to me. The only person I trust. You can't abandon me.
I'm not abandoning you, Thalia. I would never do that. Dr. Morrison's voice is calm, professional. The same voice she uses when I'm spiraling. I've made arrangements for my practice to be covered while I'm gone.
By who? Some stranger who doesn't know me? Who doesn't know what Marcus did? Who'll make me start over from the beginning? My chest tightens. I can't do this again. I can't tell someone new about the trial and the panic attacks and how broken I am—
You won't have to start over. Dr. Morrison stands, moving toward me. My son will be covering the practice.
I freeze. Your son?
Yes. He's a licensed psychologist, exceptionally qualified, and I've briefed him on the general approach to my patients' care. He'll continue your treatment seamlessly.
Something about this feels off, but I can't pinpoint what.
I didn't know you had a son.
I keep my personal life separate from my practice. But given the circumstances, I trust him completely with my patients. She gestures for me to sit. I don't. He's compassionate, understanding, and one of the most dedicated therapists I know.
You're his mother. You have to say that.
I'm saying it because it's true. Dr. Morrison's expression softens. I understand you're scared. Change is terrifying, especially for trauma survivors. But I wouldn't leave you with someone I didn't trust completely.
My mind races. Two weeks. I have two weeks before Dr. Morrison disappears and some stranger takes over my healing.
What if I don't like him? What if we don't... connect?
Then we'll make other arrangements before I leave. But I'm asking you to give him one chance. Just one session. She pauses. Thalia, you've made so much progress. Don't let fear of change undo all that growth.
The words sting because she's right. I am afraid. Afraid of trusting someone new. Afraid of being vulnerable again.
When do I meet him? I whisper.
Next Wednesday. Your usual time slot. I'll be here for the introduction.
You promise you'll be there? You won't just... leave me alone with him?
I promise. I'll introduce you personally, and if you're uncomfortable, we'll discuss alternatives immediately.
I nod slowly, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
This isn't abandonment, Dr. Morrison says gently. This is temporary. I'm coming back. And my son will take excellent care of you while I'm gone.
I want to believe her. But everyone I've ever trusted has left or betrayed me.
Okay, I finally say. One session. But if it doesn't work
We'll find someone else. You have my word.
I spend the entire subway ride home trying not to panic.
A new therapist. A stranger who doesn't know me, doesn't know my triggers, doesn't understand what Marcus did.
I'll have to explain everything from the beginning. The trial. The public humiliation. The panic attacks. The nightmares. All the ugly, broken parts of me I've spent three years learning to talk about.
And I'll have to do it with Dr. Morrison's son, who probably thinks he can fix me just because his mother trained him.
At home, I pull out my laptop and search: Dr. Elena Morrison son psychologist New York.
The results show Dr. Morrison's professional profiles, articles she's written, her practice information. Nothing about family. Nothing about a son.
I try different searches: Elena Morrison family. Morrison psychologist Manhattan son. Elena Morrison children.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Every search leads to dead ends.
I find an old photo from five years ago, Dr. Morrison receiving an award at a psychology conference. She's shaking hands with someone, smiling. But there's no mention of family in the caption. No son visible anywhere.
Who is this person she's leaving me with?
I try LinkedIn, Facebook, Instagram. Dr. Morrison's professional accounts exist, but they're carefully curated—no personal information, no family photos, no mentions of children.
It's like her son doesn't exist online at all.
My anxiety spikes with each failed search. What kind of therapist has zero internet presence? Everyone leaves digital footprints—profiles, publications, mentions somewhere.
Unless he's hiding something.
Or unless he's not actually qualified and Dr. Morrison is just trusting family over competence.
I slam my laptop shut and grab my phone, texting Zara: Dr. Morrison is leaving in two weeks. Maternity leave. Her son is taking over.
Zara's response comes immediately: Her son? Is he qualified?
She says yes. But I can't find anything about him online. No name, no profile, nothing.
That's weird. Want me to dig around?
Not yet. I meet him next Wednesday. I'll see what he's like first.
If you get bad vibes, LEAVE. Don't let loyalty to Dr. Morrison trap you with someone incompetent.
I stare at Zara's message, her words echoing in my head.
What if this new therapist, this mystery son—is terrible? What if he doesn't understand trauma? What if working with him sets me back instead of helping?
What if I'm about to lose the only stable thing in my life?
I pull up Dr. Morrison's emergency number, my thumb hovering over the call button. I could cancel next week's appointment. Could tell her I'm not ready for this change.
But then what? Start over with a completely different therapist who knows nothing about me?
At least Dr. Morrison's son will have some context. At least he'll understand her treatment approach.
I set my phone down and stare at the ceiling of my apartment.
Seven days until I meet him.
Seven days to prepare myself for another stranger seeing all my broken pieces.
I close my eyes and try to imagine what he'll be like. Probably young, fresh out of graduate school, eager to prove himself. Or maybe older, tired, just filling in for his mother as a favor.
Either way, he won't be Dr. Morrison.
And that terrifies me more than I want to admit.
My phone buzzes with another text from Zara: You okay?
I type back: No. But I will be.
I have to be.
Because the alternative—falling apart again, losing all my progress, going back to the person I was three years ago, is not an option.
I survived Marcus's betrayal.
I survived the trial.
I survived rebuilding my life from nothing.
I can survive one therapy session with a stranger.
Even if every instinct tells me this is going to go horribly wrong.