Chapter Twenty-Eight: Sketches of a Family

                                        

                                              

"Before we finish today," Dr. Mireille said, her voice calm but intent, "I'd like to offer one more exercise."
I glanced toward her, already trying to tuck away everything we'd uncovered, like I could fold it all into a mental drawer and carry it quietly until next week. She continued, her gaze steady. "This one's not just for the two of you, but for Jimmy."
At the sound of our son's name, my breath caught. A dull ache flared in my chest, familiar now. The mention of him had become both a tether and a wound.
"I know he's been affected by everything that's happened," she said gently. "Understandably. You've both told me he's been quieter. More distant. He's seen you at odds. He's felt the tension, even when it wasn't spoken aloud. And I'll tell you this—children, even teenagers, don't just hear the things you say. They absorb what you refuse to say. They learn from what's missing."
A silence settled in the room, not heavy, but still.
October leaned forward slightly in her chair, eyes fixed on Dr. Mireille. "So... what do we do?"
Dr. Mireille smiled softly, then said, "You show him something instead."
She let that hang for a moment before going on. "I want you to create a shared ritual. Just the three of you. Simple. Consistent. Weekly. It doesn't have to be big or serious. It could be a walk, a movie night... or, since Jimmy loves to draw, what about a family sketch night?"
I blinked, surprised by how easily the idea fit. "We all draw together?"
"Yes," she said, her voice warm. "Once a week. You each sketch something: an object on the table, each other, something silly. Jimmy can choose the subject sometimes. The goal isn't good art—it's the ritual itself. Predictability. Presence. Something that quietly says: we're still here, and we're still yours."
My chest tightened, but in a way that felt almost good, like something shifting from guilt into hope. "Something he can count on," I murmured.
"Exactly," she said. "It anchors him. It shows him that love can survive change. That even if some things look different later, your love for him remains." Across from me, Thomas's eyes met mine, softer than they'd been in months. "I think we can do that," I whispered, surprised by how certain it felt.
"Start this week," Dr. Mireille added. "Keep it light. Let him lead sometimes... just... be there."
Later that week, we tried. So it was just the three of us on a Friday evening, the kitchen table cleared except for a basket of pencils and a stack of Jimmy's old sketchbooks, some covers worn soft from years of being carried in backpacks and left on desks.
Jimmy came in last, shoulders hunched, trying to look casual. But the moment he saw both of us sitting there waiting, really waiting, I saw it: the flash of panic in his eyes, quick as a heartbeat. His mouth opened before he could stop himself. "Are you guys... are you gonna tell me you're getting divorced? Is it happening?"
My chest tightened at how small his voice sounded, so careful, so afraid of the answer.
"No, sweetheart," I said quickly, my voice softer than I meant it to be. "That's not what this is."
Thomas cleared his throat, leaning forward, elbows resting on the table in a way that made him look both steady and uncertain at once. "We just... wanted to try something," he said, glancing at me before turning back to Jimmy. "Something the three of us could do together. Once a week."
Jimmy's brows drew together, suspicion clouding his face, like he was still bracing for the blow he thought must be coming. "Like what?"
"Like this," I said, nodding toward the pencils and sketchbooks spread across the table. "A family sketch night. Nothing serious. Just... drawing together. Talking if we want. Or just being here."