Sarah Johnson, Therapist

The office sits on the third floor of a modern office building. All glass windows, quiet corridors and private offices. I run my fingers slowly over the engraved nameplate outside the office. "Suite 306. Sarah Johnson, Therapist." I'm in the right place. I open the door into an empty waiting room with a sparse array of comfortable chairs, magazines and neutral décor.

After a moment, the light turns green, and my palm is slick as I turn the handle.

"Come in," the calming voice calls.

I open the door. As she sees me the practiced smile drains from her face. She rises to her feet. "No. I can't..."

Her voice trails off and she stands there, resolute.

Rather than look at her, I stare at the duct tape that binds my left sneaker. My faded plaid shirt is threadbare at the elbows, but it is the best I have. I place the envelope containing $150 on the small round table by the door. Mostly dollar bills, two $10 notes, one $20 from Joe at the shelter. I couldn't trust myself with such a large amount, so he held it, week by week, while I added what I could. I went hungry some weeks rather than contribute nothing. After three months, he handed back the envelope with his gift, my goal reached.

And here I am. "Please. I wanted to earn this, not just ask for it."

"I can't give you what you want."

"I need someone to listen. To understand."

“You will have to find someone else to help you.” She sits down again, her decision made.

But I can’t leave. “Please,” I ask again. “I’m here. You don’t have to fix me. Just listen.”

Her gaze pierces me, searching for the terrible secret below the surface. Finally, she gestures to the couch. She takes her notepad and pen from the small table next to her, and presses the button to change the light from green to red. Busy.

The couch is too clean for me. Too smart. Brown leather. I’m used to street corners and cardboard.

“Are you a parent?” I ask.

“No. But what I am is not relevant to you. You asked me to listen.”

I gaze at the ceiling. It’s too hard to look at her. “I used to be. I had two wonderful daughters. I remember every moment, every laugh, every birthday. But I was not a good father. I was there, but not present. I tried, but perhaps some people are not meant to be parents.”

She grips her pen tightly in her hand, but it hasn’t touched her notebook. She promised to listen, but nothing more.

She says nothing, so I continue. “I had a job as well. It was enough. I had the American dream. But behind my idyllic life, I battled demons.”

“That sounds like an excuse,” she interjects sharply.

And then I do look at her. Her blue eyes are beautiful, but distant.

“Yes. You are right. It is an excuse. But one day, my demons decided they had waited long enough, and they killed my oldest daughter. In reality, it was a drug overdose. Heroin. I knew she was taking drugs, but I thought it was weed or Molly. We would fight about it, and she would storm off. I couldn’t find the right words to stop her. I didn’t save her.”

I pause, and take tissues from the square box to wipe my tears. Even now, so many years later, the pain hurts so much. It is still too much.

She puts her notepad and pen back on the table next to her, and she leans toward me. Her voice is less sharp. “Was her death your fault?” she asks.

“No. And yes. Isn’t a father supposed to protect his daughters?”

“Yes,” she replies, lips tight.

I reply slowly. “That was my undoing. For a long time, I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t give my wife or my other daughter what they needed from me. I got fired from my job for not showing up, and I didn’t care. One day, my daughter came into the dark pit of a bedroom where I lay. She told me it was her birthday, and asked if I would go for a walk with her. I was not there for her. I rolled over and she closed the door.”

“You turned away from her when she needed you the most. Do you still live with guilt from that?” Her voice is gentler now.

“I do. And I did. The next day, I left our home, not knowing where I was headed. I walked into town, and then I walked to the next town. And the next. After days of walking, I stood on a bridge and jumped, deciding that no longer feeling anything would be better than the pain I lived with.”

She draws in a breath.

“I woke up in hospital. A suicidal vagrant. They asked who I could call. And my demons told me I was no longer deserving of love or salvation. So I told them ‘no one.’ Even though redemption was there, I was no longer good enough.”

“You should have called,” she said.

“Yes. I can’t defend that.”

“You should have called.”

“I didn’t. I checked myself out. I continued to walk. I panhandled. I stole food. I slept in homeless shelters, trying to forget who I was and what I had lost. I fell into the clutches of all my demons, adding drugs and booze for good measure. I decided not to care if I would wake up the next morning. Proving to myself that no one cared.”

“People care.”

“I know. It’s taken me fifteen years, but I know that now.”

The buzzer sounds, gentle but insistent.

“Our time is up,” she says.

I rise from the couch. “Thank you for listening.”

She stays seated and says nothing as I walk over and exit the small office. I close the door, and the light once again changes from red to green.

But from inside the door, I hear, "I forgive you, Dad."