He Stopped Protecting Me When She Came Back

1: 1

In the third year after my severe depression diagnosis, Roderick Sanchez was the only reason I stayed alive.

He cleared every sharp object out of the apartment, put a safety rail on the balcony, and even left the bathroom door open a crack while I showered.

"Take your time. I'll wait for you to get better."

Until Florence Swanson came back from abroad.

She'd studied psychology, and she said Roderick was locking me into my role as a patient.

"The more you protect her, the more she believes something's wrong with her."

Roderick was silent for a whole night.

The next day, he tore off the balcony rail.

"Keeping you boxed in is what makes you afraid. Open it up and there's really nothing to it."

He put the knives back in the kitchen.

"You have to learn to live alongside these things."

He stopped coming in at night to check whether I'd been crying.

"You need to learn to process your own emotions."

Florence stood beside him every time, nodding.

"Yes. This is the right way."

The day I crouched in a corner of the mall, unable to breathe, I heard the two of them talking low as they walked ahead of me.

Florence: "Hold out a little longer. She's almost better."

Roderick: "And then what?"

"And then you'll be free."

Her fingers hooked around his little finger, and she laughed softly.

That night I stood on the balcony.

The wind was strong.

The safety rail was gone.

……

The lock on the living room door clicked just as one foot of mine was already hanging over the edge of the balcony.

Wind poured through the empty gap where the railing used to be, plastering my nightgown against my legs.

Roderick and Florence came in laughing.

His car keys clattered to the floor. The color drained from his face in an instant, and he started to rush toward me.

I saw his panic, and my body instinctively drew back a little.

Before, all it took was me standing near the balcony, and he'd wrap his arms around me from behind, not even daring to raise his voice.

He would say, "Maggie, don't be afraid, I'm here."

But Florence reached out and gripped his arm, her tone gentle and certain.

"Don't go over, Roderick. She's using self-destructive behavior to hold you hostage. If you go to her now, you're just reinforcing her controlling behavior."

Roderick stopped in front of the glass door.

He looked at me, and the panic in his eyes slowly settled.

Florence went on, "This is a classic borderline control tactic. She knows you're afraid, so every time she uses herself as a bargaining chip. You can't keep playing along."

Roderick's throat worked.

I stood barefoot on the edge of the balcony, my toes going numb with cold.

He looked at me through the glass door, his voice dropping.

"Maggie Fox, look. You still haven't jumped, have you?"

I froze.

Florence sighed softly, like a teacher looking at a student who wouldn't learn.

Roderick draped his coat over his arm, his tone slipping back into that tired restraint.

"It's windy up there. Come down when you've put on enough of a show. I'm not going to indulge you without limits the way I used to."

My fingers slid off the door frame, one by one.

So standing here wasn't danger.

It was a performance.

I walked slowly back into the living room, the cold floor under my feet.

Roderick bent to pick up the keys and said to Florence, "You're right. I was far too soft on her before."

Florence handed him a glass of warm water.

"You've done so well already. Caregivers need boundaries too."

At two in the morning, I climbed out of bed.

My chest was tight, like a stone slab pressing down on it, my temples throbbing, a fine roar filling my ears.

I pulled open the nightstand drawer and found the white pill bottle.

I twisted off the cap, but what tipped out was a handful of colorful sugar tablets.

I stared at my palm for a long time and couldn't tell what they were.

I carried the bottle out to the living room.

Roderick sat on the couch reading emails, the cold light of the laptop on his face.

I held the bottle out in front of him, my throat raw and aching.

"Roderick, where are my meds?"

He didn't look up.

"Switched them."

I braced myself against the edge of the couch, my knuckles white.

"My chest hurts, my head hurts. Give me my meds."

Roderick finally lifted his eyes, a faint crease between his brows.

"Florence says your dosage is already past the safe range. You're drug-dependent now."

Florence came out from the doorway of the master bedroom.

"Maggie, placebos are a very common supportive method. You have to trust your own willpower."

Roderick took the bottle from my hands and tipped one sugar tablet back out.

"Take this for now. Get through tonight and you'll be fine. Stop treating yourself like you're useless."

My stomach heaved, and I gripped the coffee table, gagging.

He stood up, as if his patience had finally run out.

"I have a meeting in the morning. Don't make a scene for too long."

I knelt on the carpet, my fingers dug into the corner of the table.

"Roderick, please."

His footsteps paused.

Florence reminded him softly, "Roderick, this is her testing your limits."

Roderick's back stiffened, and then he pushed open the master bedroom door.

"Deal with it yourself."

The lock fell shut with a click.

I lay sprawled in the dark living room, listening to my own breathing come faster and faster.