I turned toward her, startled but smiling, "Really?"
She gave a soft, almost embarrassed laugh. "Online first. Then in a small lab nearby. It's something I've loved since I was a kid, but I always thought it wasn't real enough to count. Not practical. Not serious. But I'm doing it."
She glanced down, fidgeting with her fingers in her lap.
"I didn't tell you," she said, "because it felt like the only thing that was mine. Something that didn't need permission or approval or a budget spreadsheet. And I was afraid that if I said it out loud, you'd treat it like... one more thing that got in the way of real life. Of the schedule. The kids. The bills. Everything."
Her voice caught slightly, but she kept going.
"I didn't want to fight for it. I just wanted to have it."
We both looked ahead again, eyes not meeting, like the floor between us held something fragile we didn't want to step on.
Dr. Mireille spoke gently, her words slow and deliberate, "Do you both see a resemblance in your stories? A pattern?"
October hesitated. Then shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. Other than the fact that... we didn't really talk to each other."
The therapist nodded, gently. "Yes and as a result, you both made a lot of assumptions about how the other would feel. What they'd say. What they'd need. And then you built entire patterns of behavior around those assumptions. You turned guesses into truths and those are the hardest kinds of truths to dismantle."
I swallowed hard. God, she was right. I'd assumed so much about October. That she was content. That if she was quiet, it meant things were fine. I thought my providing for her was enough—that it was love, and she must've thought my silence meant I didn't want her to do more, to be more. 
October glanced at me, a flicker of something in her eyes, sadness maybe, or the beginning of understanding.
The therapist leaned back slightly, giving us space. "You both tried so hard not to hurt each other, you ended up hurting yourselves and each other, you made quiet decisions made out of fear, not dialogue. Out of protection, not partnership."
That hit me like a stone in the chest. I didn't protect her, not really. I just didn't let her in. And now I could see how lonely that must've felt for her. I thought I was doing the right thing—being steady, strong, unshakeable. But all I'd done was make myself unavailable. Unreachable. and then with the affair, it made everything even worse.
She let the silence breathe for a moment, then looked at both of us again.
"Now, before you leave, let's try something together."
She flipped to a fresh page in her notebook.
"This is a foundation exercise I often use to help couples rebuild emotional fluency. It's called What I Wanted to Say Was... I'll say a scenario, and each of you will say what you actually felt in that moment, even if it's messy. No blame. Just truth."
She looked to me first.
Dr. Mireille's voice was steady, but the question she asked cracked something open immediately.
"Thomas. Start with this one: The day October told you she wanted to divorce you. What did you want to say, but didn't?"
I let out a slow breath. The room felt heavier now warmer, like all the air had narrowed to that single memory I hadn't let myself sit with in full. My chest tightened as I glanced down at my hands, clasped together too tightly in my lap.
"I wanted to say... please don't."
The words came out quieter than I meant them to, but I didn't try to repeat them. My voice cracked slightly on the last word, and I cleared my throat.