Domestic Chaos
1 Week Later
The therapist’s office smells like cinnamon. It kind of tickles my nose, reminding me of Christmas and Thanksgiving.
I sit, tucked into a large, pale pink armchair that squeaks every time I move, with my legs crisscrossed and my arms tight across my chest.
Her name is Cami, and she’s young. Maybe like in her late twenties. Her hair is dyed a soft cotton candy pink, the ends curled slightly. She’s wearing a chunky yellow cardigan that I
kind of want for myself and I almost feel like I’m talking to a friend.
I tell her about the accident, about my relationship with my brother.
Her neon green nails click gently against the arm of her chair as she waves and gestures,
which she does often.
“That’s a lot,” she says in an empathetic whisper.
I blink at her. That’s an understatement. I manage a small smile. “Yeah. That’s one way to
put it.“.
She laughs easily, not in a fake way, but the kind that sounds like warmth. Like sunshine.
I’m not sure if I like her yet.
But I don’t dislike her either.
She doesn’t push. Just lets the silence linger. I’m kind of thankful for that because I’m not
sure I can get into anything having to do with Zaid, Jake or Aiden.
“Do you still talk to your mother?”
I shake my head. “A lot more has happened since the accident. She’s in Arizona. I’m here,
I don’t-”
I swallow, tightening my arms around myself.
She shakes her head. “We don’t have to dive into everything today. Let’s go at your pace.”
1/4
Domestic Chaos
I unload about my mother mostly, about her neglect and her alcoholism. I open up more than I expect to.
Cami watches me closely, eyes kind and a little glassy at the corners, and I can tell she’s feeling it. Not just nodding through it like it’s her job. It feels genuine.
By the end of the session, my eyes are puffy, my throat sore. I’m wrung out like a rag. And even though I only gave her pieces of the full story, it feels like I’ve bled out half my soul on her rug.
Losing my mother while she stands right in front of me is a terrible thing to go through. Watching her lose herself in grief while being forced to grow up far beyond my years made me lose so much of myself.
Cami validated it all.
I think I do like her.
I leave and cry all the way home, wanting to get it out so that Zaid doesn’t see me like
this.
The house smells like takeout and cardboard. Boxes are stacked everywhere, some half-
opened, others with sticky notes in Zaid’s neat handwriting.
A tiny shred of domestic chaos.
I toe off my shoes and wander to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of water. My hands are
still shaking from earlier.
There’s this aching part of me that wants to sink into Zaid’s arms, to bury my face in his
chest and pretend none of this happened. I remember how good it used to feel to only
focus on the way he rolled his hips into me.
The way he kissed me and told me loved me.
I crave it so much right now.
But I can’t. I promised myself I’d learn to stand on my own.
I sip my water slowly. Let the coolness settle in my chest.
2/4
Domestic Chaos
My room is still mostly bare, just a blow–up mattress in the corner and one wall slowly filling with pictures and scraps of paper. The beginnings of a hunt for a family I’ve never met. A name here, an address there. Most of it is scribbled and crossed out, but it’s something. A breadcrumb trail.
I sit on the mattress and let my head fall back against the wall.
There’s a knock on my door. My heart does this stupid skip thing because it’s him.
“Come in,” I say, voice softer than I mean it to be.
Zaid steps inside, holding a piece of paper in his hand. His hair is messy, shirt slightly wrinkled. He looks tired, in the same way I feel. But he smiles at me.
“How was it?”
I can only nod over the lump in my throat.
He sees the emotion on my face and sits beside me on the mattress. “Are you going to go
back?”
“Yes. I think I want to go as often as I can.” My voice is rough, broken from all the crying.
The smile he gives me reaches his eyes, and he breathes like he’s been holding something in all day. He shifts and hands me the paper.
I look down a the name and the phone number. I frown. “Elena Hanson. Wait… is this?”
“Your aunt,” he says, smiling down at the paper. “I called your mom. Got what I could out
of her.”
I stare at the paper, heart pounding, and then back up at him. “You did that?”
He nods, eyes flicking to my mouth and then back up. “I know you don’t want to talk to
her, but where else could we get this information from?”
Emotion rises so fast in my throat I can barely speak. “Zaid, I…”
I don’t think. I just move. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him.
It’s just a peck at first, a kiss to tell him how thankful I am.
3/4
Domestic Chaos
And then Zaid kisses me back, deep and desperate. He’s as starved as I am. But he’s always been stronger than me.
He pulls back suddenly, eyes wild, lips parted.
“I should…” His voice is rough, thick. “I should go work out or something.”
I nod, breathless. “Okay.”
He gets up and hesitates in the doorway, like he wants to say more. But he doesn’t. He
just leaves, and I lean back on the mattress, fingers still trembling.
The paper rests in my lap like it weighs ten pounds.
My heart feels like it might explode.
I reach for my phone and dial the number.
