Her sister opened her second can of beer. It was 11:30 a.m. “I think you’re addicted to therapy.”
They were in the breakfast room of their childhood home. Their mom lay in her bedroom, in the dark, released for home hospice.
“Can’t you talk to a friend?
“Really, has it helped you? I think it’s keeping you stuck.”
“I get something from it.” She cleared the table of their salad plates, stacking them carefully, then swept them to the floor.
Her sister lit another cigarette, held the inhale as she spoke. “I’ll take your word for it.”