I started seeing a therapist.

In secret, at a small private practice on the Upper East Side.

The doctor was famous—a rising star in psychology, they said.

His fee was two hundred dollars for half an hour.

I went once a week.

The first month, my mother asked, “Did all thirty thousand come through?”

I said, “Why?”

She said, “It’s four hundred short.”

I didn’t say I’d spent that four hundred on a therapist.

My parents would only blame me for wasting money, ask why I didn’t use it to buy supplements for my brother.

I stayed silent.

For once, my mother didn’t push.

She reached out and touched my red scarf.

“This scarf is all shrunk, and you’re still wearing it? Take it off. Let me mend it for you.”

It was deep winter.

I wore a black down jacket and an old red scarf around my neck for warmth.

Enzo laughed at me, said I treated that ugly scarf like treasure.

I never told him my mother had knitted it.

I always wore it.

Trying to convince myself she cared about me.

That day I took off the scarf and let her fix it.

I was about to crawl into bed to warm up when Enzo called.

His voice was low. “Come out. I’m waiting at your building entrance.”

It had started snowing.

My mother saw that Enzo was calling me and said nothing.

She handed me an umbrella and told me to go.

At least she had some pride left—she didn’t teach me how to please a man.

Though that was ironic enough.

Outside was freezing.

I zipped my down jacket, wearing only thin wide‑leg pants. My legs were almost too cold to walk.

Inside Enzo’s Maybach, the heat slowly brought my body back.

He was silent and grim the whole ride.

I asked where we were going.

He laughed. “To atone.”

The car stopped in front of a church on the Upper East Side.

White flowers lined the entrance.

It was Catherine Ross’s funeral. Valentina’s mother.

People were coming and going.

Valentina stood at the door in a black dress, tear‑stained.

Enzo said quietly, “Back in high school, after your mother’s public reprimand, Catherine got so upset she had a gastric hemorrhage on the spot. Her health never recovered. Last week, she died of stomach cancer.”

My heart pounded as I looked at Enzo.

His blue eyes reflected the snowlight, cold as ice.

“Go inside,” he said. “Kneel for her.”

Inside the church, people whispered, fabrics rustled.

Most visitors just bowed.

But Enzo pulled me in, knelt, and lit incense.

Then he stood and told me to kneel.

I was wearing thin pants. My knees were already purple from the cold.

I said I didn’t want to.

“You have to kneel,” he said. “You’re kneeling for your mother. It’s what she owes.”

He kept pushing.

Valentina stood by, red‑eyed, staring daggers at me.

Enzo gave his ultimatum: “If you don’t kneel today, we’re done. No more thirty thousand a month. Ever.”

I knelt.

My knees hit the marble floor with a dull thud.

Everyone stared. I heard the sound of falling snow.

And the sound of my heart breaking.

Later, when I told my therapist about it, I was calm. I even smiled a little bitterly.

I’d knelt for maybe half a minute.

But every second felt like a year.

When I got home, I asked my mother, “Mom, did you fix my scarf? I want to wear it.”

She was in the kitchen, tidying up. She didn’t answer.

I went to my room to look for it.

The scarf had been unraveled. It was just a pile of red yarn now.

My mother said, “Marco’s scarf was too short, and I ran out of yarn. So I took yours apart to fix his. You can buy yourself a new one—it’s not like it was expensive.”

Oh. Okay.

But my heart hurt so much.

All these years, knives had been scraping across it, wounding it till it bled from every side.

That day, I held that pile of yarn, laughing and crying like a madwoman.

My mother asked, “Is it really that big a deal? It’s just a scarf. You have money. You can afford to blow four hundred on a shrink!”

I shot to my feet and screamed, “Am I your real daughter? Mom, don’t you know how awful you’ve been to me? Only Marco is your child, isn’t he? Isn’t he?!”

For the first time in my life, I lost it.

I flipped the dinner table. Plates and bowls crashed everywhere.

“I’m done,” I said. “You can all pretend I’m dead!”

I slammed the door and ran out. The cold wind and snow pellets stung my face, freezing my bones.

I walked aimlessly through the snowy night. My phone rang non‑stop—Enzo demanding I come back to the apartment. I didn’t answer a single one.

When I reached a small park, I realized I was barefoot. I’d lost my shoes somewhere. My soles were cut and bleeding from bits of ice.

I sat on a park bench, clutching that unraveled red yarn, and sobbed.

Later, in my therapist’s office, when I said “You can all pretend I’m dead,” I couldn’t help but laugh.

“It felt so good,” I said. “When I said that, I realized—I am a person. Not someone’s daughter, not someone’s sister. A living, breathing person.”

The therapist listened quietly.

His glasses reflected the light. He looked unfamiliar but trustworthy.

I went on: “That night I ran out into the snow and limped for a long time. Enzo kept calling; I blocked him. I walked onto the Queensboro Bridge and looked at the Manhattan skyline in the distance. And suddenly I forgot a lot of things.”

“I remembered my grandma’s house near the Brooklyn Bridge. The cables looked like white gulls spreading their wings in the sun. I remembered little beautiful things, rising up from the darkness, one by one.”

“I cried. Limping along, tears hot against the wind. And I realized: I’m not broken yet. There’s still so much good energy hidden inside me—it came out to save me just when I wanted to give up.”

“So I decided not to die. I decided to live on my own. Far away from all of them.”

The hourglass had run out.

I looked at the time.

“Oh, almost an hour. Sorry for taking so much of your time.”

He was a famous therapist. Every second cost money.

“Thank you for your help. I’ve really benefited. This is my last session. I can’t afford it anymore.”

I smiled bitterly.

I’d decided to leave Enzo. From now on, I’d live on my own salary.

The therapist took off his glasses, revealing a pair of clear blue‑gray eyes.

“Okay. Now the session is over. We’re no longer doctor and patient.”

He smiled slightly. “Senior, do you remember me?”