There was no couch. No clipboard. Just a circle of chairs in a softly lit room that smelled of herbal tea and old leather.
Daniel sat in one of them, stiff at first. Then slowly he relaxed.
Dr. Greene sat across from him. The same cardigan, same calm eyes.
"This isn't about fixing," she began. "It's about understanding. And you don't have to talk if you're not ready."
Daniel's hands fidgeted with the cuff of his sleeve. It felt like he was peeling back layers of himself—not skin, but something deeper.
"I feel like I'm watching my life like it's someone else's movie," he said eventually. "But I can't pause or rewind it."
"That's dissociation," Dr. Greene said gently. "Not madness or failure. It's a survival mechanism. The mind protects itself when everything feels too big to hold."
He nodded, unsure if he should agree, but needing to hear it.
They spent the rest of the session in quiet, only broken by a few scattered sentences. Daniel talking about the cafe. About waking up and not recognising his own handwriting on a sticky note. About the bruises. About Ethan drawing a picture of a dad with two faces.
"I thought he was just being silly," Daniel whispered. "Kids draw monsters all the time."
Dr. Greene didn't smile. "Maybe he was trying to show you what you couldn't see."
The session ended with no conclusions. But Daniel left feeling lighter.
Winston Hills, Sydney — September 10th, 2008.
Evening, 6:23 P.M.
That evening, Daniel sat on the floor of Ethan's room. Blocks scattered around them, some spelling out gibberish, some half-built castles.
Ethan looked up suddenly. "Are you staying tonight, Daddy"
Daniel blinked. "Of course I am."
"You didn't come to say goodnight last time," Ethan murmured.
Daniel swallowed, throat dry. "I'm sorry, buddy. I'll try to always be here from now on."
Ethan nodded, then went back to stacking blocks.
Claire stood at the doorway, arms folded, watching as conversation between father and son unfolded.
Later, she placed a cup of tea in Daniel's hands and asked, "Did it help?"
He didn't have words. So he nodded. And he felt he was getting close again to his kid, she kissed his forehead. Saying.
"Let's take one step at a time."
Therapy—Week Two.
A week later, Dr. Greene pushed a piece of paper towards Daniel. On it were two columns. One is blank, and another is titled 'Other'.
"We're going to begin mapping him," she said.
Daniel stared at her not understanding what she meant.
"I want you to write what you know about the part of you that takes over. Personality traits, reactions, emotions. Just whatever you have observed."
Daniel hesitated for a second and then wrote slowly.
Confident. Loud. Smoked. Fights. Jokes too much. Angry, but laughs when he's angry. Stays out late. Doesn't know Ethan. Doesn't care what others think. After writing this he stopped.
"I don't want to hate him," he admitted. "But I kind of do."
"You don't have to love or hate him yet," Dr. Greene said. "But he's you. A version of you that tried to carry something alone."
Daniel didn't reply. He just didn't know what to say.