My Therapist Husband Erased Our Baby From My Mind

I came home early with the ultrasound photos in my purse. Twenty-two weeks. The technician had printed five copies because the baby kept moving, kept showing off. I wanted to surprise Roman. I wanted to see his face light up the way it did when I told him about the pregnancy.

His car was in the driveway. The house was quiet.

I set my keys on the hall table and called his name. No answer. His office door was almost closed. A sliver of lamplight fell across the hallway floor.

I pushed the door open.

Talia was on the therapy couch. Eyes closed. Head tilted back. Her body slack in that particular boneless way I'd only seen in Roman's demonstration videos. Deep trance. She wore the same sweater she'd worn to breakfast three days ago.

Roman stood over her. His hand was on her throat. His other hand was—

The ultrasound photos slipped from my fingers. They hit the hardwood and scattered. Black and white images of our baby spinning across the floor like leaves.

Roman's eyes met mine.

For one second—just one—his face was something else. Something raw and calculating and utterly without the warmth I'd spent six and a half years believing was real.

Then it smoothed. The mask came back. Perfect and practiced.

"Dakota," he said. His voice was his therapist voice. Calm. Warm. Managing a difficult situation with professional grace. "Sweetheart, this isn't—"

I pulled the door nearly shut. My hand shook on the handle. I stood in the hallway with my back against the wall and pressed my palm flat over my mouth to keep the sound inside.

I could hear him through the door. That voice. Soft and steady and so gentle it made my stomach turn.

"You're doing beautifully, Talia. You're safe. When you wake up, you'll feel rested. Calm. You won't remember anything that happened after you closed your eyes. Just a peaceful, healing session. Nothing else. Do you understand?"

A pause.

"Good. Very good. I'm going to count backwards from five now."

I thought about calling the police. I thought about kicking the door open. I thought about screaming.

But Talia was unconscious. She had no idea what was happening to her. If I called the police now, she would wake up to strangers and cameras and questions she couldn't answer. She would wake up to the destruction of whatever fragile stability she'd built in the three months since Bodie drowned.

My family would be publicly destroyed. The Parkers, who valued reputation above almost everything. Talia's trauma would become dinner conversation and headlines.

I pressed my thumbnail into my index finger until the skin went white.

I stayed silent.

"Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Eyes open, Talia."

I heard movement inside. Fabric rustling. A soft, groggy sound.

"How do you feel?" Roman asked.

"Better." Talia's voice was small and sleepy. "A little better, I think."

"That's wonderful. You're making real progress."

I walked to the kitchen. I poured a glass of water I didn't drink. I stared at the tomatoes from the farmer's market sitting in a bowl on the counter and felt the floor I'd built my entire life on dissolve beneath me like salt in water.

When Talia came out twenty minutes later, she smiled at me. A real smile. The first I'd seen since Bodie died.

"Hey," she said. "I didn't know you were here."

"Just got home." My voice sounded normal. I'd practiced normal my whole life. "How was your session?"

"Good. I feel… lighter, I guess." She hugged me. "Thank you for setting this up. Roman's really helping."

I drove her home. I held her hand at every red light. I said nothing.

---

That night I moved my pillow to the guest room. When Roman asked why, I told him pregnancy discomfort. Back pain. The baby pressing on my ribs.

"Whatever you need, sweetheart," he said. He kissed my forehead. "Just let me know if there's anything I can do."

We ate dinner on opposite ends of the table. He asked how I was feeling. I said fine. He refilled my water glass without being asked. He told me about a patient's breakthrough. I smiled at the right moments.

After dinner he washed the dishes while I dried. We moved around each other in the kitchen like dancers who'd rehearsed the steps a thousand times.

When I went to bed, he stood in the doorway of the guest room.

"Goodnight, Dakota," he said softly. "I love you."

"Love you too," I said.

I waited until I heard his footsteps fade down the hall. Until I heard our bedroom door close.

Then I lay in the dark and pressed both hands over my mouth and felt everything I'd ever believed in turn to smoke.