Brick by Brick

Lately, with the help of AI, I’ve been doing a good bit of writing. I find writing cathartic, that’s why I originally started doing it. Well that, and to learn about myself and to put my thoughts out there in the hope that someone will see them and relate, have their own thoughts start a conversation, or maybe learn something about themselves (the latter of which is very narcissistic and I only mean that by sharing what I think, maybe someone else’s journey will be a little easier). 

Anyway, back to the point, the beauty of AI is that it can do a lot very fast and do it fairly well. So as I pull together plots and sketch outlines, I can use AI to build on that and add the color, keep the style and syntax in sync, point me to flaws or holes in my thinking, etc. And then I can refine what AI puts out there to shape it and mold it where I want it to go through an iterative, back and forth process. Basically, AI does a lot of the work that makes writing down my thoughts seem like an overwhelming task allowing me to concentrate on the vision and the execution (which I can refine). I guess this is CEO Amanda with the vision and delegating the tasks. 

So I’ve “written” (with the help of AI) the stories I’m posting. The first, entitled “Brick by Brick” was written to express many of my feelings - it starts with one of my own writings about my formative years and places “Connor” (me, but not my real name) in a situation that isn’t exactly the same but rhymes with my own, including many of the ups and downs Connor experiences along the way. His journey ultimately takes him to a place where I haven’t been, but maybe somewhere I’d like to go. The other story that I’m posting, “Tides of Amanda,” revisits many of these same themes, albeit from an earlier point in life, and with more emphasis on some of the turmoil I felt earlier in my life, how dressing impacting some of my social development, and ultimately a recognition that the journey to acceptance of oneself is fragile, as is life itself. 

Fair warning - these stories are long, raw, heavy, and emotional - a difficult read that the reader has to persevere through. For these reasons, not anything 18+, it’s not for the faint of heart. Ultimately, they are tales of coming to piece with oneself and creating the balance in life that I’ve written on many times. But that’s not a linear process, instead being one that involves taking steps backwards along the way (including right out of the gate), but with the hope that over time one can move forward and come to peace with who they are. 

All my love, 

Amanda

Brick by Brick

In a Charlotte suburb built brick by brick, Connor Jennings has crafted a steady life as a husband and father—until a buried voice begins to chip away at the walls he’s raised. Lauren, his wife of 24 years, senses the growing fault lines in their family’s foundation, blind to the shadow he’s hidden since childhood. What begins as a whisper could either fortify their bond or bring their whole world tumbling down.

Chapter 1: Building a Fortress

March 24, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

The first time I wanted to dress up, I was maybe four, watching my cousin prance around after church in her Sunday best—a frilly dress, white tights, those shiny Mary Janes I couldn’t stop staring at. I wanted to try them on so bad it hurt, but I knew better than to ask. Small-town Southern rules were already sinking in: boys don’t do that. By five, I got a taste—Mom bought me tights for a He-Man Halloween costume, worried I’d be cold. I slipped them on the second I got home, the fabric snug and electric against my skin, stirring feelings I didn’t understand—arousal, shame, a tangle I couldn’t name. It was warm that Halloween; I didn’t wear them. They sat in my drawer for months, taunting me, until Mom cleaned out my clothes and they disappeared. A year later, I wore tights again as a mouse in The Nutcracker, the stage lights hot, the feeling sharper, but I buried it deep.

Third grade, fifth grade—same pull, same shame. Friends dressed up as jokes, everyone laughing, but I wasn’t laughing. I wanted to be the one in the clothes, and it felt wrong, like a secret that’d send me to hell. Small-town life didn’t leave room for that—church on Sundays, Dad’s heavy Be a man, the weight of expectations I couldn’t escape. By fifth grade, I gave in, sneaking into my sister’s room. She was little, but her hand-me-downs fit just enough—a cowgirl skirt, a leotard, the stretchy fabric hugging me in a way that made my heart race. I’d always been fascinated by ballet, the grace of it, and that leotard felt like a dream I couldn’t admit. Then I moved to Mom’s closet: a light pink dress, knee-length, white polka dots, paired with white hose and her Sam & Libby ballet flats. I’d twirl in front of the mirror, rub my legs together, the swish of fabric a secret thrill, then change back fast, guilt clawing at me. I did it for years, whenever I was alone, knowing it was wrong but unable to stop, the pull too strong, the shame too heavy.

Middle school hit, and puberty made it worse. I’d dress, do what teenage boys do, then crash into self-loathing, changing back like I could erase it. How could I have a normal life—family, wife, the small-town dream—if I was this? High school, I tried to bury it. Freshman year, I made the baseball team, hung with guys who hunted and drank stolen beers. I liked that life, wanted it to be enough. But at night, I’d lie awake, replaying those stolen moments in the mirror, the longing as sharp as the shame. I started calling her Amanda in my head—a whisper, a name to keep her separate, to keep her caged.

Sophomore year, I got bold. Parents out of town, sister at a sleepover, I had the house for two days. I didn’t just dress—I lived it. Mom’s makeup, clumsy mascara and lipstick, that pink polka-dot dress again. I cooked, watched TV, felt Amanda breathe for 48 hours. Sunday night, I scrubbed my face raw, hid everything, swore I’d stop. Monday, I was Connor again, jeans and flannel, laughing with my buddies like nothing happened. But she was there, always there, a whisper I couldn’t silence.

Then Lauren came—junior year, a transfer from up north, all fire and red lipstick, scribbling poetry in her textbooks, arguing with teachers and winning with a grin. I was quieter, steady, a lanky kid who could fix anything, who slipped her a note: You’re trouble. Meet me after? She did, and we stuck. We built a life—married at 22, Jake born a year later, Mia three years after that. With Lauren, I drew a hard line. I loved sports, hunting, her, our kids—and I meant it. Amanda didn’t fit that life. I boxed her up, literally—white pantyhose, a crumpled college sketch of a dress, shoved in a den closet. I doused her with bourbon when she got loud, told myself she was a flaw to ignore. For years, I thought she was gone. I was wrong. Now, at 46, Amanda’s not whispering anymore. She’s screaming, and I’m running out of ways to keep her down.

Chapter 2: Cracks in the Facade

Friday, March 24, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

I’m at the kitchen sink, scrubbing a coffee mug, the dishwasher humming behind me. It’s a Friday morning in our Charlotte colonial, the lawn trimmed, the cul-de-sac quiet, neighbors nodding over their fences. I’m Connor Jennings—46, senior project manager, husband to Lauren for 24 years, father to Jake and Mia, both off at college now, Jake at UNC studying business, Mia painting her way through Savannah at SCAD. It’s a life I built brick by brick to keep everything steady—family, career, the suburban dream. But Amanda’s here, louder than she’s been in years, her voice a drumbeat in my skull. Tell her, she says, over and over, a chant I can’t shake. I grip the mug tighter, sponge scraping, and mutter under my breath, “Be quiet.” She doesn’t.

Lauren’s in the living room, wineglass in hand, laughing at a podcast through her earbuds, her silver-streaked hair catching the light. She’s still the storm I married—fierce, vibrant, my anchor through every mess, the one who kept me grounded through Jake’s rebellious high school years and Mia’s quiet, artsy ones. I love her, always will. But she doesn’t know Amanda, never has, and Amanda’s clawing at that secret now, her voice sharp, demanding. I’ve kept her buried for 40 years—since I was a kid sneaking into Mom’s pink polka-dot dress—but she’s not content with whispers anymore. You’re lying to her, she says, her voice a blade in the dark. To yourself. I clench my jaw, focus on the mug, but she’s relentless.

Work’s a distraction, but not enough. I wear slacks and polos, sit through meetings about shipping routes, fake a laugh at the boss’s golf stories. I’m good at it—dependable, steady Connor, the guy who always shows up, just like I did for Jake’s baseball games and Mia’s art shows. But Amanda’s there, perched in my mind, louder every day. I’ll be typing an email, and she’ll mutter, This isn’t you. I’ll pass a coworker in a pencil skirt, and she’ll hiss, You’d wear it better. I grit my teeth, keep typing, but her voice cuts through the office hum like a knife. It’s not nostalgia—it’s a pull, stronger than it’s been since I was 15, twirling in front of that mirror.

We’ve lived in this house ten years, traded a city apartment for suburban quiet after a promotion, a place where Jake and Mia could grow up with a big yard and good schools. Lauren gardens, I tinker with the lawnmower—routines that used to ground me, that made me feel like the dad I was supposed to be. Now they chafe. Last week, in the garage, oil-streaked and sweaty, Amanda broke through. You’re wasting it, she said, clear as if she were standing there. This life, this shell—it’s not enough. I dropped the wrench, hands shaking, and stared at the concrete floor, thinking of Jake’s last call—some internship he’s applying for—and Mia’s latest painting, a vibrant abstract she texted us. They’re building their lives, and I’m here, unraveling. Amanda’s never been this bold. I poured a bourbon and waited for her to fade. She didn’t.

Nights are hell. Lauren sleeps beside me, her breathing soft, and I lie awake, Amanda filling the dark. It started small—memories of that pink dress, the swish of hose—but it’s escalated. Two nights ago, she said, You can’t keep me in that box forever. She means the one in the den closet—white pantyhose, a crumpled dress sketch from college, relics I can’t throw out, hidden behind Jake’s old baseball gear and Mia’s childhood art supplies. Last night, I got up, pulled it out, sat there tracing the frayed nylon. Wear it, she urged, her voice loud, close. I shoved it back, slammed the door, but she lingered, a buzz in my skull.

Lauren’s starting to notice. This morning, stirring sugar into her coffee, she looked at me, hazel eyes narrowing. “You’re off again,” she said, her voice sharp but worried, her hands pausing on the spoon, a small frown creasing her brow. “Work stressing you out? Or is it the kids being so far away?” I nodded, forced a smile, but Amanda laughed—She knows something’s up, you idiot. I choked on my toast, coughed it off, but Lauren’s gaze lingered, searching, like she could see the cracks I’ve been hiding. She’s always seen through me, just never all the way. Years ago, after a fundraiser, she caught me staring at her black pumps. “What’s with you and shoes?” she’d teased, her tone light, but I’d shrugged it off, heart pounding, thinking of Jake and Mia asleep upstairs, the life I’d built to keep them safe. Now Amanda replays it, taunting. She’s closer than you think. Tell her. I can’t. What would she see? The man she married, the father our kids rely on, or the stranger I’ve been for 40 years?

The dressing faded after college—marriage and the kids drowned it out. But there were slips: a thrift-store skirt in an Atlanta hotel while Lauren was home with Jake and Mia, a nightgown in the garage a decade ago when the kids were at summer camp. Each time, Amanda was there, softer then, a wistful echo. Now she’s a roar. Yesterday, I passed a boutique downtown—mannequins in flowing dresses—and she stopped me cold. Go in. Buy one. Wear it. I kept walking, legs shaking, pulse racing like I was 15 again, thinking of Mia’s latest text, a photo of her with paint on her cheek, smiling. She’s not a ghost anymore. She’s a demand, and I’m running out of ways to keep her down.

Chapter 3: The First Break

Saturday, March 25, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

Lauren left this afternoon, her suitcase rattling down the driveway as she headed to Savannah to see Mia. “She’s got some art show,” she’d said, kissing my cheek, her purple scarf fluttering in the March breeze. “I’ll be back Sunday,” she said, kissing my cheek, her purple scarf fluttering in the March breeze, her hazel eyes bright with excitement. “Don’t burn the house down. And tell Jake to call me—he’s been dodging me all week.” She grinned, that high-school grin I fell for, and I waved her off from the porch, forcing a laugh, nodding about Jake, who’s probably too busy with college life to check in. The SUV disappeared around the corner, and the silence settled in—thick, heavy, a held breath. I stood there, hands in my pockets, thinking of Mia, probably in her dorm painting something new, but Amanda didn’t wait. Finally, she said, her voice sharp, close, a blade against my spine. Just us now.

It’s Saturday, and I’m alone in this too-big house, the kids’ rooms empty down the hall—Jake’s old baseball trophies still on his shelf, Mia’s sketches pinned to her wall. I took a personal day yesterday, claimed a headache, and now there’s no work, no Lauren, just me and the hum of the fridge. I try to keep busy—mow the lawn, fix a leaky faucet, flip through a hunting magazine I don’t read—but Amanda’s louder than ever, a drumbeat in my skull. You can’t ignore me anymore, she says, each word heavier than the last. I pour a coffee, burn my tongue, and she laughs—You’re stalling. She’s right. I am.

By afternoon, I’m in the den, pacing, the air thick with her presence. Look at the box, she demands, her voice biting into every thought. I know what she means—the one in the closet, the pantyhose, the sketch, tucked behind Jake’s old gear and Mia’s art supplies. I’ve avoided it for months, but she’s a tide pulling me under. You’ve got no excuses now. I yank the door open, drag it out, the cardboard edges soft with age. The hose spill onto my lap, white and fragile, and the sketch flutters to the floor—a dress I’d imagined her in, all those years ago. Wear it, she says, loud enough to drown out my pulse. I shove it all back, slam the lid shut, but she’s screaming now. STOP HIDING ME.

I stumble upstairs, her voice chasing me. The walk-in closet looms—Lauren’s side a riot of color, mine a dull row of grays. Amanda’s in my ear, a roar. Pick something. Do it. My hand trembles, hovering over a teal dress—sleeveless, knee-length, one Lauren hasn’t worn in years. Now, she says, and I can’t fight her anymore. I pull it off the hanger, the fabric cool against my skin, and grab a pair of her old tights from a drawer. The bathroom door locks behind me, and I strip, hands shaking like I’m 15 again. The tights slide on, snug, familiar; the dress follows, zipper catching as I fumble. I face the mirror, and there she is—Amanda, sharp and real, her eyes mine but not mine. Finally, she breathes, and for a moment, I’m not afraid.

But the high crashes fast. My shoulders are too broad, stubble betrays my jaw, the dress hangs wrong on a body that’s aged into someone else. Amanda’s voice cracks, furious. This isn’t enough. It’s never enough. I rip the dress off, tights tangling as I yank them down, and slump against the sink, chest heaving. You can’t keep doing this, she says, softer now but piercing. You can’t keep shutting me out. I stare at my hands—calloused, a man’s hands, the hands that taught Jake to throw a curveball, that hung Mia’s first painting—and feel her settle into my bones, heavy, unyielding.

Night falls, and I’m on the couch, bourbon in hand, the empty house pressing in. Amanda’s quiet for once, but it’s worse—she’s waiting, patient, inevitable. I think of Lauren and Mia, laughing together in Savannah, oblivious to the storm I’m drowning in. I think of Jake, probably out with friends. All of them so far from this mess. I think of the life I’ve built, the man I’ve been, and how it’s fraying at the edges. Tell her, Amanda whispers, a plea this time, not a demand. Or let me out. You can’t carry us both forever. The glass slips from my hand, shatters on the hardwood, and I don’t move to clean it. My phone buzzes—Lauren texting a photo of Mia’s painting, all bright slashes of color. I stare at it, throat tight, and Amanda’s voice rises again, steady, unshakable. It’s time.

Chapter 4: Out in the Open

Sunday, March 26, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

I didn’t sleep. The teal dress lies crumpled in the bathroom, the shattered bourbon glass glints in the den, and Amanda’s here, not screaming now, but steady, a current pulling me under. You can’t go back, she says, her voice a low hum. Not this time. I’m pacing the kitchen, coffee cold in my hand, when she speaks again, clear and firm. Take me out. I freeze, mug slipping to the counter. Out? I think, half to her, half to myself. Out where? She doesn’t answer with words—just a pulse, a dare, thrumming in my chest.

I don’t plan it. I’m in the closet again, not just grabbing Lauren’s dress this time. I dig deeper—her makeup bag, untouched since some party last year; a pair of black flats, scuffed but soft; a scarf, deep red, one she wore when we moved here, when Jake and Mia were still small, running through the new house with boxes still unpacked. My hands move like they’re hers, not mine. The bathroom becomes a staging ground. I shave closer than I have in years, nicking my chin twice, blood beading against the sink. The tights go on first—black, from Lauren’s drawer, a little tight but they stretch. Then the dress—teal, wrinkled but hers, Amanda’s now. I zip it, fumbling, and tie the scarf around my neck, hiding the Adam’s apple that’s always betrayed me.

The makeup’s harder. I’ve never done this—not really, not beyond that clumsy coral smear in high school. Mascara clumps on my lashes, lipstick—some plum shade—smudges until I wipe it clean and try again. My hands shake, but Amanda’s steady. Look at me, she says, and I do. The mirror shows a stranger—broad shoulders softened by the dress, eyes too big, too alive. I’m not beautiful, not like I dreamed as a kid, but I’m her. Good, she whispers. Now out.

I don’t know where I’m going until I’m in the garage, keys to the old pickup in hand—the one I keep for hunting trips, the one I used to take Jake on when he was younger, teaching him to track deer. No wallet, no ID, no Connor. Just Amanda. The engine rumbles to life, and I back out, scarf pulled tight, windows up. The cul-de-sac’s empty—neighbors at church or brunches—and I’m on the road, heart slamming against my ribs. Drive, she says, and I do.

I head north, no destination, just away. The suburbs blur into strip malls, then open fields. Amanda’s voice fills the cab, not loud now, but alive, electric. This is me, she says, and I feel it—her, not just in the clothes, but in the way my hands grip the wheel, the way my breath catches. I pass a gas station, a diner, and then I see it—a thrift store, faded sign reading “Second Chances.” Stop, she commands, and my foot’s on the brake before I can argue.

Inside, the air smells of mothballs and old perfume. A woman at the counter nods, barely looking up from her phone. I move fast, head down—dresses, skirts, a rack of shoes. My size is a guess, but Amanda knows. I grab a navy skirt, a cream blouse, a pair of low heels—black, simple, mine. Not Lauren’s, not borrowed. Mine. I pay cash from a crumpled twenty in the truck’s glovebox, voice low when I mutter “thanks,” scarf muffling the roughness. The woman doesn’t blink. I’m back in the truck, bag on the passenger seat, and Amanda’s singing now, a hum I feel in my bones. This is us.

I don’t go home. I drive to a park ten miles out—empty, just a bench by a pond, reeds swaying in the wind. I change in the truck, windows fogged, peeling off Lauren’s dress for the scarf and blouse. The heels pinch, but they’re mine. I step out, scarf loose now, and walk to the bench. The air’s cool, the world quiet, and I sit, legs crossed like I’ve seen women do a thousand times. Amanda’s not whispering anymore—she’s here, loud in the rustle of my skirt, the click of my heels on the path. Look at us, she says, and I do. I’m not Connor. Not here. I’m her.

The sun dips low, and panic creeps in—Lauren’s back tonight, the house is a wreck, the truck’s got thrift-store tags on the floor. I think of Jake and Mia, safe in their college worlds, oblivious to this, and the weight of keeping this from them, from Lauren, hits hard. But Amanda’s not done. Stay, she says, fierce, a command I can’t shake. This is who we are. My phone’s dead in my pocket, no texts from Lauren yet, and I’m sitting here, 46 years old, in a skirt I bought, heels I chose, and I don’t know how to go back. I don’t know if I can. Amanda’s louder than she’s ever been, and for the first time, I’m not fighting her. I’m listening.

Chapter 5: The Purge

Sunday, March 26, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

The sun’s barely down when panic hits, sharp and cold, slicing through Amanda’s triumph. I’m on that park bench, skirt rustling in the wind, heels digging into the dirt, and it crashes over me—Lauren’s coming home tonight, the house is a mess, and I’m sitting here, 46 years old, playing dress-up like some runaway kid. What the hell am I doing? My breath catches, hands clammy against the blouse—my blouse—and Amanda’s voice falters, surprised. Stay, she pleads, but I’m already up, stumbling to the truck, heels catching on the path. No, I think, loud enough to drown her out. This ends now.

I drive home too fast, the thrift-store bag bouncing on the seat, a taunt. The cul-de-sac’s dark, lights off in every house but mine. Inside, I don’t stop—straight to the bathroom, tearing off the skirt, the blouse, the tights, the scarf. My hands shake as I stuff them into a trash bag, mascara-smudged eyes staring back from the mirror. Amanda’s fading, but she’s fighting. Don’t do this, she says, softer, desperate. I grab Lauren’s teal dress, the flats, the makeup—everything—and shove it in too. The den closet’s next: the box, the pantyhose, the sketch, still tucked behind Jake’s old baseball gear and Mia’s art supplies. I rip the drawing in half, then quarters, and it joins the pile. You’re done, I tell her, voice cracking. I’m done.

The garage has a dumpster out back—pickup’s Monday. I haul the bag there, slam it in, and stand under the streetlight, chest heaving. Amanda’s quiet now, a faint ache in my skull, but I feel her retreating, wounded. I sweep up the bourbon glass, scrub the bathroom sink, fold Lauren’s clothes back into place. By the time Lauren’s car pulls into the driveway, the house is sterile, Connor’s house again. She walks in, suitcase in hand, her smile tired but warm, her hazel eyes searching mine as she sets her bag down. “Missed you,” she says, her voice soft, but there’s a flicker of concern in her expression, like she can sense something’s off. “Mia says hi—she’s got some art show coming up.” I force a smile, my throat tight, and mutter, “Missed you too. Good to know about Mia.” She doesn’t push, just heads to unpack, and I collapse on the couch, staring at the ceiling, telling myself it’s over. She’s gone. I’ve won.

But the victory’s hollow. Monday comes—work, meetings, the same gray slacks—and there’s nothing. No Amanda, no hum, just a void. I should feel free. I don’t. I feel gutted. Lauren’s chatter over dinner is a distant hum, her laughter at some story about her friend barely reaching me, her mention of Jake finally texting her back a small bright spot I can’t fully grasp. I nod, force a smile, but my hands tremble under the table, the absence of Amanda a weight I didn’t expect. She’s gone, but she’s taken something with her—color, life, a piece of me I didn’t know I needed. I’ve purged her, and it’s killing me.

Chapter 6: Sinking in Silence

Tuesday, April 15, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

Weeks bleed together, and I’m a ghost in my own life. It’s mid-April now, and I go through the motions—coffee, emails, nodding at Lauren’s stories—but it’s mechanical. Food tastes like ash, sleep’s a wrestle with blank dreams, and the office feels like a cage. Amanda’s gone, but her absence is a scream, a void I can’t fill. I sit in the garage some nights, staring at the spot where I dumped her things, half-expecting her to claw back, thinking of Jake’s last call about his internship, Mia’s latest text with a photo of her newest painting. They’re thriving, and I’m here, fading. She doesn’t. I’ve purged her, and I’m sinking.

Lauren sees it. This morning, in the kitchen, she corners me, arms crossed, her hazel eyes hard, her voice sharp with worry. “You’re not you, Connor. You’re barely here,” she says, her hands gripping the counter, her knuckles pale, a frown creasing her brow. I shrug, stirring cold oatmeal, but she’s not having it. “Work? The kids being gone? What is it?” Her voice softens, a tremor in it, her eyes searching mine, a quiet fear in them I can’t ignore. “You’re scaring me.” I can’t look at her—guilt’s a brick in my throat. Amanda’s silent, but her absence echoes. Tell her, I think, the old urge, but I don’t. “I’m fine,” I lie, my voice flat, and she sighs, sharp, frustrated, her shoulders slumping slightly, like she’s carrying the weight of my silence.

A week later, she tries again. We’re on the couch, some cop show droning, and she mutes it, turning to me, her posture tense, her hands clasped in her lap, her hazel eyes locking on mine with a mix of determination and worry. “You need to talk to someone. Therapy. Something,” she says, her tone firm, no room for argument, her voice trembling slightly, a sign of how much this is costing her. “You’re sinking, and I can’t watch it anymore. Jake and Mia—they’d say the same if they were here.” I stare at the blank TV, numb, the mention of the kids a small jolt, a reminder of the life I’m failing. Therapy. The word lands like a stone—someone digging into my head, finding her, pulling her out again. No, I think, but there’s no fight left. Amanda’s gone, and I’m drowning without her. “Maybe,” I mumble, my voice barely audible, and Lauren squeezes my hand, her grip warm, grounding, a flicker of relief in her eyes, though I see the worry still there, the way her brow furrows, like she’s bracing for what’s next. She doesn’t know what she’s asking. I don’t know if I can face it.

By late April, I’m a shell. The depression’s a fog, thick and gray, seeping into every crack. Lauren books me an appointment—some therapist downtown, Tuesday, May 6. I nod, let her handle it, because I can’t. Amanda’s not back, not even a whisper, but her shadow lingers, a bruise I can’t touch. I purged her, locked her away, but I didn’t win. I lost. And now, with therapy looming, I’m terrified she’ll find a way out—or worse, that she won’t.

Chapter 7: Breaking the Fog

Tuesday, May 6, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

I’m sitting in a beige waiting room downtown, palms sweaty on my jeans, the clock ticking too loud—11:57 a.m. Lauren’s voice echoes from last night: “Just try, Connor. For me. For the kids—they’d hate seeing you like this.” She drove me here, parked outside, said she’d wait at a coffee shop nearby, her hazel eyes searching mine, a quiet plea in them as she squeezed my hand, her touch a lifeline I don’t deserve. I didn’t argue. I haven’t argued with anything in weeks. The depression’s a weight, pinning me to this chair, and Amanda’s absence is a hole I can’t fill. The therapist’s door opens, and a woman steps out—mid-50s, short hair, glasses perched on her nose. “Connor Jennings?” she says, her voice calm but firm. I nod, stand, and follow her in.

The office is small, soft blues and bookshelves, a couch I don’t take. I pick the armchair, sinking into it like it might swallow me. She sits across, notepad in lap—Dr. Ellen Hart, her plaque said outside. “So,” she starts, adjusting her glasses, “what brings you here?” Her tone’s neutral, but it lands like a spotlight. I stare at my hands, cracked from garage work, the hands that taught Jake to throw a curveball, that hung Mia’s first painting, and mumble, “My wife thinks I need help.” She waits, pen hovering. “I’ve been… off. Not sleeping. Not eating much.” The words feel like gravel, but Amanda’s silent. I’d almost welcome her snark now, just to feel something.

Dr. Hart nods, scribbling. “Off how?” she presses, gentle but insistent. I shift, the chair creaking. “Tired. Empty. Like I’m just… going through it.” She tilts her head, her eyes sharp, searching. “Anything happen recently? A trigger?” My throat tightens—the park, the skirt, the purge—but I can’t say it. “Just work,” I lie, my voice flat, “and the house feeling empty with the kids at college.” She writes again, then looks up. “Sounds like more than that. You’re carrying something heavy, aren’t you?” Her eyes lock on mine, and I flinch. Amanda stirs, faint, a flicker in the dark. She sees, she whispers, barely there. I clench my fists, shove her down.

We talk—or she does. I give half-answers about my job, Lauren, the suburban grind, the quiet house now that Jake and Mia are off building their own lives. She probes—stress, habits, family history—but I skirt the edges, keeping Amanda buried. Thirty minutes in, she shifts gears. “Let’s try something,” she says, setting the pad aside, her voice steady, coaxing. “Close your eyes. Picture where you feel this ‘empty.’ Where it lives in you.” I hesitate, but her tone pulls me in. I shut my eyes, and it’s there—the void, gray and endless, right in my chest. “What do you see?” she asks. I swallow, my voice low. “Nothing. Just… dark.”

“Stay with it,” she says, her voice calm, guiding. “Anything else?” I’m sinking into it, the fog I’ve lived in since the dumpster swallowed her. The silence stretches, and then—color. A flash of teal, the swish of a skirt. Amanda’s voice, soft but clear. I’m still here. My eyes snap open, heart thudding. Dr. Hart leans forward, catching the shift, her expression sharp but kind. “What happened?” she asks. “Nothing,” I mutter, too quick, my hands gripping the armrests. She doesn’t buy it. “You saw something. Tell me.” I clench my jaw, my voice tight. “Just… a memory. Old stuff.” Liar, Amanda hisses, louder now, a spark catching flame.

She doesn’t push, not yet. “Old stuff can weigh a lot,” she says, her voice even, her eyes steady on mine. “What’s it feel like, that memory?” I stare at the rug—blue swirls, like water I could drown in. “Heavy,” I admit, the word slipping out, raw. “Like it’s… part of me.” Amanda’s back, a pulse in my temples. Damn right it is, she says, sharp and alive. I dig my nails into my palms, trying to crush her, but she’s growing, feeding on the crack I’ve let open. Dr. Hart nods, her expression softening. “Part of you. That’s a start. Can you give it a name?”

My breath stops. Amanda. It’s there, on my tongue, but I choke it back. “No,” I rasp, shaking my head, my voice trembling. “It’s nothing.” She watches me, quiet, then writes something down, her pen scratching softly. “Okay,” she says, soft but firm. “We’ll come back to that. But it’s not nothing, Connor. It’s why you’re here.” Amanda laughs, a low, bitter sound. She’s got you, she says, and I hate how right she feels. I’ve purged her, trashed her, buried her, but she’s clawing up, louder with every word I don’t say.

The session ends—50 minutes, a blur. Dr. Hart hands me a card, says, “Next week?” her tone encouraging, her eyes warm. I nod, numb, and stumble out. Lauren’s waiting in the coffee shop, scrolling her phone, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp as they meet mine, a flicker of hope in them. “How’d it go?” she asks, her voice soft, searching, her hands pausing on her coffee cup. “Fine,” I lie, sliding into the booth, my voice flat. She squeezes my hand, her grip warm, grounding, but I see the worry in her, the way her brow furrows slightly, like she’s not sure she believes me. “Jake called while you were in there—says he might visit next month,” she adds, a small smile breaking through, though her eyes stay on me, searching. Amanda smirks, her voice a taunt in my head. Fine? You’re cracking, and she knows it. The fog’s still there, but it’s shifting—depression giving way to something else, something alive and angry. I’ve opened a door I can’t shut, and Amanda’s stepping through, whether I want her to or not.

Chapter 8: Cracks Widening

Tuesday, May 13, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

I’m back in Dr. Hart’s office, the beige waiting room unchanged, the clock still too loud—11:55 a.m. Lauren didn’t drive me today; I took the truck, told her I’d handle it. She’d hugged me, her arms tight, and said, “Proud of you,” her voice soft but her hazel eyes searching, a flicker of hope in them as she mentioned Jake might call later. I’d nodded, throat tight, thinking of Mia’s latest text—a photo of her newest painting, vibrant and chaotic, like her. The week’s been a slog—work a gray blur, silence at home, the depression a fog I can’t shake. But Amanda’s awake now, a live wire under my skin, buzzing louder since last session. She’s getting closer, she’d said this morning, watching me shave in the bathroom mirror. You can’t keep me out. I’d nicked my cheek again, blood on the razor, and told her to shut up. She didn’t.

Dr. Hart calls me in, her calm smile steady, glasses perched on her nose. I take the armchair again, legs crossed tight, hands clasped like I can hold myself together. She settles across from me, notepad ready. “How’s the week been?” she asks, pen poised, her tone neutral but probing. I shrug, staring at the bookshelf—Freud, Jung, titles I don’t understand. “Same,” I say, voice flat. “Tired. Off.” She nods, waits, her patience a weight. Amanda’s there, a smirk in my head. Liar, she says, sharp. Tell her about me. I grit my teeth, ignore her, but my palms are already sweating.

“Last time,” Dr. Hart says, flipping a page in her notes, “you mentioned something heavy. Part of you. Want to pick that up?” Her tone’s steady, but it’s a hook, tugging at the crack she found last week. My chest tightens, the memory of that session—It’s part of you—still raw. “Not really,” I mutter, but she leans forward, just enough, her eyes sharp behind her glasses. “It’s weighing you down, Connor. You said it yourself—heavy. Let’s look at it.” Amanda’s voice cuts in, loud now. She’s right. Tell her. I shift, the chair groaning under me. “It’s just… old stuff. Doesn’t matter.” She tilts her head, her expression softening but unyielding. “Old stuff that’s still here. That matters.”

I’m cornered, and Amanda knows it. Go on, she urges, a drumbeat in my skull. Say my name. My hands sweat, and I wipe them on my jeans, the rough denim grounding me for a moment. “It’s hard to talk about,” I manage, voice low, barely above a whisper. Dr. Hart nods, encouraging, her voice gentle but firm. “That’s okay. Start small. What’s it feel like, this ‘old stuff’?” I close my eyes, unbidden, and it’s there—the park, the navy skirt, her voice in the wind, the swish of fabric against my legs. “Like… losing something,” I say, slow, the words heavy on my tongue. “Or hiding it. I don’t know.” Amanda’s laugh is soft, triumphant. You’re slipping.

Dr. Hart scribbles, then looks up, her gaze steady. “Hiding something. That’s a big word. What are you hiding?” My gut twists, and Amanda’s right there, loud, alive. Me, she says, clear as glass. Tell her about me. I open my mouth, then clamp it shut, shaking my head, my breath coming faster. “Myself, maybe,” I blurt, the closest I’ve come, the words slipping out like a confession. Her pen stops. “Yourself,” she repeats, soft, her voice a lifeline I’m afraid to grab. “Which part?” I freeze, trapped, my heart slamming against my ribs. Amanda’s roaring now. Say it. SAY IT. “The part I don’t show,” I rasp, hands trembling in my lap. “The part I… can’t.”

She sets the notepad down, her eyes steady on mine, warm but piercing. “Why can’t you?” she asks, and it’s like a key turning, unlocking something I’ve kept buried for 40 years. The room blurs, and Amanda’s voice fills it—Because of me, because I’m her, because I’m real. I grip the armrests, my breath shallow, ragged. “It’s wrong,” I choke out, the words tearing at my throat. “It’s not… who I’m supposed to be.” Dr. Hart leans in, her voice quiet but firm. “Says who?” she asks, her question a mirror to my shame. “Who decides that?” Amanda’s everywhere now, a flood I can’t stop. Not you, she says, fierce. Not them. Me.

I’m unraveling, words spilling before I can catch them. “I’ve tried to kill it,” I say, voice breaking, my eyes burning. “Threw it away. But it’s still there. Always there.” Tears well up, hot and shameful, and I swipe at them, my hands shaking. Dr. Hart’s calm, unshaken, her presence a steady anchor. “It,” she says, her voice soft but deliberate. “Does ‘it’ have a name?” My heart stops. Amanda, she chants, a mantra, a demand, her voice echoing in my skull. I can’t breathe, can’t speak, the name so close to the surface it hurts. “I don’t know,” I lie, my head shaking hard, my voice barely a whisper. “I don’t—” She cuts in, gentle but unyielding. “You do. And that’s okay. You don’t have to say it today. But it’s part of you, Connor. Pushing it down’s what’s killing you.”

The session ends, and I’m a wreck—sweaty, raw, Amanda pounding in my head. You almost did it, she says, her voice a mix of pride and anger, alive in a way that terrifies me. Dr. Hart hands me the card again—“See you Tuesday?”—and I nod, staggering out, my legs unsteady. Lauren’s at home when I get there, cooking pasta, humming softly, the kitchen warm with the smell of garlic. “How was it?” she asks, stirring sauce, her tone careful but her hazel eyes searching mine, a small frown creasing her brow. “Hard,” I mutter, the truth for once, my voice hoarse. She sets a plate down, touches my shoulder, her hand warm, grounding. “Good hard?” she asks, her voice soft, a flicker of hope in her expression. I don’t answer. Amanda does, quiet but sure. Yes.

Chapter 9: Hazy Bourbon

Wednesday, May 14–Tuesday, May 20, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

The days after that session—Wednesday through Monday, May 14 to 19, 2025—are a blur of bourbon and haze. I don’t plan it, not at first. Wednesday night, Lauren’s at her book club, and I’m alone, Amanda’s voice still ringing from Dr. Hart’s office. You almost said it, she taunts, circling my head like a vulture. Next time. I grab the bottle from the den, pour a double, then another, chasing the burn to shut her up. It works—for an hour. She fades, muffled, and I sleep, heavy and dreamless, the kids’ empty rooms down the hall a silent weight—Jake at UNC, Mia at SCAD, both oblivious to the storm I’m drowning in. But she’s back by morning, sharper. You can’t drown me, she says, and I pour again at lunch, hiding the glass when Lauren’s car pulls into the driveway.

Thursday’s worse. Work’s a slog—emails unanswered, a meeting I barely hear—and Amanda’s relentless. I’m real, she hisses, every sip of coffee turning to her voice. I stop at a liquor store on the way home, grab a cheap fifth of whiskey, and stash it in the garage, behind Jake’s old baseball gear. Lauren’s cooking, humming, and I’m on the couch, sneaking pulls from a tumbler I call “water.” She doesn’t notice, not yet, too busy texting Mia about her upcoming art show. Friday, I call in sick, head pounding, and drink through the day—garage, den, bathroom, anywhere she can’t find me. Coward, Amanda spits, louder with every glass. You’re losing. I tell her to go to hell, voice slurring, and pass out on the recliner, the house too quiet without the kids’ laughter to fill it.

Lauren catches on Saturday. I’m in the kitchen, midday, pouring bourbon into a mug, and she walks in, freezes, her hazel eyes narrowing. “Connor,” she says, her voice tight, her hands gripping the counter, “what the hell is that?” I shrug, too slow to hide it, my head swimming. “Just a drink.” Her expression hardens, worry etched into her frown. “It’s noon. And that’s not your first.” I mutter something about stress, but she’s not buying it. “You’re drinking like a fish. Since when?” she demands, her voice rising, a tremor of fear in it. Amanda laughs, bitter. Since me. I slam the mug down, liquid sloshing, and storm to the garage, my vision blurring. She follows, grabs my arm, her grip desperate. “Talk to me,” she pleads, her voice breaking, her eyes wide with fear. “You’re falling apart.” I yank free, head swimming, the bourbon burning in my chest. “I’m fine,” I snap, and she backs off, hurt, her shoulders slumping as she turns away. I drink more that night, alone, until she’s a whisper I can’t hear.

Sunday’s a wreck. Lauren’s quiet, watching me—me, unshaved, shaky, sipping “coffee” that’s half whiskey. “This isn’t you,” she says, soft, over a dinner I don’t eat, her voice trembling, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “You’re killing yourself.” Amanda’s there, faint but smug. She’s right. I shove the plate away, retreat to the den, and finish the bottle, thinking of Jake’s last call—some internship he landed—and Mia’s latest painting, a vibrant abstract she sent us. They’re building their lives, and I’m here, destroying mine. Monday, I barely function—work’s a fog, Lauren’s texts unanswered, her messages about the kids a distant hum I can’t focus on—and I’m counting hours to Tuesday, therapy, a lifeline I don’t want but need. The drinking’s not working; Amanda’s still there, quieter but stronger, waiting.

Tuesday, May 20, 2025, I’m back in Dr. Hart’s office, reeking of stale booze and regret. I drove, barely sober, hands trembling on the wheel, the truck weaving slightly on the empty roads. The waiting room clock ticks—11:58 a.m.—and I slump in the chair, head throbbing, the fog of bourbon clinging to me like damp rot. She calls me in, her calm nod unchanged, but her nose wrinkles as I pass, the smell of whiskey betraying me. I take the armchair, slouching, and she sits, notepad ready. “Rough week?” she asks, her tone understated but her eyes sharp, taking in my disheveled state. I laugh, dry and cracked, the sound hollow. “Yeah. You could say that.” Amanda’s voice cuts through, clear despite the haze. Tell her why.

She waits, then dives in, her voice steady, probing. “What happened after last time?” Her glasses glint, pinning me, and I feel the weight of her gaze. I rub my face, stubble scratching, the roughness a reminder of how far I’ve fallen. “Drank,” I mutter, my voice low, ashamed. “A lot.” She nods, scribbling, her pen scratching softly against the paper. “Why?” My gut twists—Lauren’s face, the bourbon, Amanda’s taunts, the silence of the house without Jake and Mia to ground me. “To quiet it,” I say, my voice barely audible, my hands trembling in my lap. “The… heavy thing.” Amanda’s back, loud now. Me, she says, fierce. You can’t kill me. Dr. Hart leans forward, her expression calm but intent. “Did it work?” I shake my head, my eyes stinging, the truth raw in my throat. “No. She’s still here.”

Her pen stops, the silence heavy. “She?” The word hangs, a weight I can’t lift. I freeze, realizing—she. Amanda’s roaring, triumphant. YES. I backtrack, panicked, my heart racing. “It. I meant it,” I stammer, but Dr. Hart’s too sharp, her gaze piercing through my lie. “You said ‘she.’ Who’s she, Connor?” she asks, her voice soft but unyielding. My chest caves, my breath shallow, ragged. “No one,” I rasp, but Amanda’s screaming. LIAR. SAY IT. I grip the chair, knuckles white, my vision blurring with tears and booze. “Just… a part of me. A thing I can’t stop,” I manage, my voice breaking. She sets the pad down, her eyes steady, warm but firm. “A part with a name?” My vision blurs, the bourbon and fear and her voice—Amanda, Amanda, Amanda—overwhelming me.

“I don’t know,” I choke, the lie breaking apart, my hands shaking uncontrollably. “I don’t—” She cuts in, her voice soft but firm, grounding me. “You do. And she’s fighting to get out. Drinking won’t bury her.” Amanda’s everywhere, a tide crashing over me. She knows, she says, wild, alive, her voice a roar in my skull. I’m shaking, tears I can’t stop spilling down my cheeks, and Dr. Hart hands me a tissue, her voice gentle, steady. “It’s okay. We’ll get there. She’s not going anywhere.” The session ends, and I’m wrecked—sobbing, raw, Amanda louder than the bourbon ever was. I stagger out, not ready, but cracked wide open, the word she a wound I can’t close.

Chapter 10: The Last Run

Tuesday, May 20–Thursday, May 22, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

Tuesday night, May 20, 2025, I stumble out of Dr. Hart’s office, the word she still burning in my ears, Amanda’s voice a wildfire I can’t douse. She knows, she’d crowed, victorious, as I’d sobbed into that tissue, the bourbon haze clinging to me like damp rot. I drive home, truck weaving, my hands trembling on the wheel, the smell of whiskey heavy in the cab. Lauren’s waiting—pasta cold on the table, her eyes red-rimmed from worry, her posture tense as she stands by the counter. “You’re drunk again,” she says, her voice breaking, her hands clenched at her sides, a deep frown creasing her brow. “Therapy didn’t help?” I brush past, muttering, “I’m fine,” and grab the whiskey from the garage, behind Jake’s old gear. One last time, I think, not to Amanda, not to anyone—just a plea to myself. One last run.

Wednesday, I don’t go to work. I call in sick, voice hoarse, and Lauren leaves for her job, slamming the door with a look that says she’s done asking, her hazel eyes hard with frustration and fear. The house is mine, the kids’ rooms silent down the hall—Jake’s trophies gathering dust, Mia’s sketches fading on her wall. Amanda’s loud, relentless. You can’t stop me, she says, a drumbeat in my skull. I down a shot, then another, but she’s right there, laughing. Not enough. I need out—not just quiet, not just numb—out. I grab the truck keys, the whiskey bottle, and a duffel from the closet, the same one I used to pack for Jake’s baseball tournaments years ago. No plan, just motion. Run, I tell myself, and Amanda hisses, You can’t outrun me.

I drive north, past the suburbs, past the park where I’d sat in that navy skirt, the memory sharp and vivid—the swish of fabric, the air on my legs. The bottle’s between my thighs, cap off, and I swig at stoplights, my eyes blurring, the road a hazy streak. Amanda’s voice shifts—angry now. Where are you going? I don’t answer, just crank the radio—some country song about lost love—and push the pedal harder, the truck rattling under me. An hour out, the fields turn to woods, and I spot a sign: motel, $49 a night. I pull in, tires crunching gravel, and stagger to the desk. The clerk—old, bored—takes my cash, no ID, no questions. Room 12, key in hand, and I’m inside, door locked, bottle half-gone.

I collapse on the bed, springs creaking, and drink until the room spins, the peeling wallpaper blurring into a haze. Amanda’s still here, quieter but piercing. This won’t work, she says, a needle in my brain, her voice cutting through the bourbon fog. I throw the bottle at the wall—glass shatters, whiskey streaks the peeling paint—and scream, “Leave me alone!” My voice echoes, raw, and she’s silent for a beat. Then, soft, I can’t. I curl up, head pounding, and pass out, chasing black, chasing nothing, the weight of my life—Lauren, the kids, Amanda—crushing me into the mattress.

Thursday morning, I wake to a trashed room—wet carpet, my shoes off, duffel untouched. The hangover’s a vise, my head throbbing, my mouth dry, but Amanda’s back, steady, unshaken. You’re a mess, she says, almost gentle, her voice a quiet hum in my skull. Running’s over. I don’t fight her—just sit there, staring at the whiskey stain on the wall, knowing she’s right. I check out, drive home slow, sober enough to not crash, the empty bottle rolling on the passenger seat. Lauren’s at work, the house empty, and I shower, scrub the stink off, but not her. She’s in me, deep, and I’m done running. Tuesday’s coming, therapy’s coming, and I can’t escape anymore. I think of Jake and Mia, safe in their college worlds, and the life I’ve built for them—a life I’m unraveling. Amanda’s voice softens, a whisper. You can’t keep me out. Not anymore.

Chapter 11: Half a Man

Tuesday, May 27, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

Tuesday, May 27, 2025, I’m in Dr. Hart’s office again, 11:58 a.m., sober but shattered. No bourbon to hide behind, just me—unshaved, hollow-eyed, hands trembling from withdrawal and dread. Lauren didn’t speak this morning, just left a note on the counter: Please get help. Her handwriting was shaky, her worry bleeding through the ink, and I thought of her mentioning Mia’s art show over the weekend, a small attempt to connect I couldn’t meet. I’m here, but barely, a shell of the man I’ve been. Dr. Hart calls me in, her face unreadable, and I slump into the armchair, the familiar creak a tether to reality. “You look rough,” she says, not unkindly, her notepad ready, her glasses glinting as she studies me. “What happened?” Amanda’s there, loud, alive. Tell her, she says, a command I can’t dodge.

I break, the words spilling out like a dam bursting. “I ran,” I say, my voice cracking, raw. “Last week. Drank, drove, hid in some motel. Tried to kill it—her—again.” My chest heaves, the confession tearing at me, my hands gripping my jeans. “But she’s here. Always here.” Dr. Hart’s pen stops, her eyes sharp, focused. “Her,” she says, her voice soft, deliberate. “She has a name this time?” Amanda’s roaring, a tide I can’t hold. SAY IT. My throat burns, tears welling, and I can’t stop it. “Amanda,” I choke, the name tearing free after 40 years, a weight I’ve carried since I was a kid in that pink polka-dot dress. “Her name’s Amanda.”

The room stills, the air thick, heavy with the truth I’ve finally spoken. Dr. Hart sets the pad down, her glasses glinting as she leans forward slightly. “Amanda,” she repeats, careful, her voice a steady anchor. “Who is she?” I’m sobbing now, raw, undone, the tears hot on my cheeks. “Me,” I say, my hands clawing at my jeans, the fabric rough under my fingers. “The part I’ve hid. The part I’ve dressed as, dreamed as—since I was a kid. I’ve tried to bury her, kill her, but she won’t go.” Amanda’s voice softens, a sigh in my head. Finally. Dr. Hart nods, her expression steady, no judgment in her eyes. “She’s you,” she says, her voice calm, affirming. “And she’s been fighting to breathe. Why bury her?”

I shake, the words tumbling out, a flood I can’t stop. “Because it’s wrong. I’m a man—husband, father—I’m not supposed to be her,” I say, my voice breaking, the shame I’ve carried for decades spilling out. I think of Lauren, of Jake and Mia, of the life I’ve built to keep them safe, to be the man they need. Amanda cuts in, fierce, her voice a blade. Says who? Dr. Hart echoes her, the timing uncanny. “Says who, Connor? Who told you that?” she asks, her question piercing through my defenses. I’m reeling, lost, my breath coming in shallow gasps. “Everyone. Me. I don’t know,” I stammer, my hands trembling uncontrollably. She leans in, her voice soft but firm. “You’ve carried her 40 years. She’s not wrong—she’s you. What happens if you let her live?” Amanda’s quiet, waiting, and I’m cracked wide open, no fight left. “I don’t know,” I whisper, terrified, alive, the possibility both a lifeline and a threat. “I don’t know.”

The session ends, and I’m a shell—empty, but lighter, the weight of Amanda’s name a strange relief. Dr. Hart says, “Next week,” her tone encouraging, and I nod, staggering out, my legs unsteady. Amanda’s not taunting now—she’s here, real, a piece I can’t unname. I drive home, the truck quiet, radio off, just the hum of tires on asphalt, but she’s loud, louder than ever. You did it, she says, soft, almost proud. I’m real now. I grip the wheel, knuckles white, and mutter, “Shut up,” out of habit, but there’s no force behind it. She doesn’t. She won’t. I’ve let her out, and I don’t know what that means.

Lauren’s home when I pull in, stirring soup on the stove, her note—Please get help—still on the counter, a silent plea. She looks up, her hazel eyes tentative, searching, a small frown creasing her brow. “How was it?” she asks, her voice careful, like she’s stepping around glass, her hands pausing on the spoon. I drop my keys, slump into a chair, my body heavy with exhaustion. “Different,” I say, hoarse, dodging her gaze, my throat tight. Amanda’s there, a whisper. Tell her. My stomach twists—no, not yet, not ever—and I force a shrug. “Talked some stuff out.” Lauren nods, sets a bowl in front of me, but her frown lingers, her eyes studying me, worry etched into her expression. “You’re still off,” she says, quiet, her voice trembling slightly, “but… lighter?” I don’t answer. I can’t. She’s right, and it terrifies me.

Chapter 12: Wrestling the Truth

Tuesday, May 27–Sunday, June 1, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

That night, I lie awake, Lauren’s breathing soft beside me, and wrestle with the truth I’ve unleashed. Amanda’s name echoes, a bell I can’t unring, a live wire in my chest, sparking and searing. I’m you, she’d said in therapy, and Dr. Hart’s voice chimes in—Why bury her? Why? Because I’m Connor—46, husband, father, a man in slacks and a corner office, the one who taught Jake to throw a curveball, who hung Mia’s first painting. Amanda’s dresses, heels, the girl I’ve been since I was four—she doesn’t fit. She’s wrong. Says who? Amanda cuts in, sharp, echoing Dr. Hart, her voice a challenge I can’t ignore. You? Them? I roll over, press my face into the pillow, but she’s relentless. You named me. You can’t take that back.

Wednesday, I go to work, a zombie in a tie, the office a gray haze. Meetings blur, coffee scalds my tongue, and Amanda’s there, a shadow in every reflection—glass doors, my monitor, the bathroom mirror. Look at me, she says, and I see her—teal dress, scarf, the me I was in that park, the air cool on my legs, the swish of fabric a memory I can’t erase. I splash water on my face, hard, but she’s not a smudge I can wipe off. I’m not wrong, she insists, calm now, certain, her voice a steady hum. I’m you. My hands shake—anger, fear, something else. Relief? No, that’s insane. I’ve spent 40 years killing her, drinking her away, and now she’s here, and part of me doesn’t hate it. That’s what scares me most.

Thursday, I’m in the garage, tinkering with the lawnmower, and it’s a full-on war. What happens if you let her live? Dr. Hart’s question loops, and Amanda pounces, her voice a plea, not a demand. Let me live. You felt it—out there, in that skirt, on that bench. Free. I drop the wrench, metal clanging on the concrete, and pace, chest tight, my breath coming in short gasps. Free? That day was panic, madness—not freedom. Wasn’t it? she presses, her voice soft but piercing, and I falter. The swish of fabric, the air on my legs—it was something, something alive, something I can’t unfeel. But it’s not me. It can’t be. I’m Connor, damn it—Lauren’s husband, Jake and Mia’s dad, the man who built this life. Amanda laughs, soft, her voice a whisper in my ear. You’re both.

Friday, I snap. Lauren’s at the store, and I’m in the den, staring at the spot where I trashed her box, the space behind Jake’s old gear and Mia’s art supplies now empty, a void that mirrors the one in my chest. You miss me, Amanda says, bold, her voice cutting through the silence, and I lose it. “No!” I yell, my voice bouncing off the walls, raw and desperate. “You’re not real! You’re a mistake!” She’s quiet, then—You named me. That’s real. I sink to the floor, head in my hands, and it hits—relief, raw and jagged, mixing with the terror. I’ve hated her, feared her, but she’s me, and naming her made it true. I can’t unfeel that day in the park, can’t unhear her voice. What now? she asks, gentle, and I don’t know. I’m wrestling a ghost I’ve made flesh, and I’m losing.

Saturday, Lauren corners me in the kitchen, her hazel eyes sharp, searching, her posture tense as she catches me muttering to myself, my voice low, arguing with Amanda. “You’re talking to yourself,” she says, her voice firm but laced with worry, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. “What’s going on, Connor?” Amanda whispers, Now, her voice a nudge I can’t ignore. I freeze, my heart hammering, my palms sweating. “Nothing,” I lie, but my voice shakes, betraying me. She steps closer, her expression softening but her tone unyielding. “Bullshit. You’re breaking, and I’m here. Talk,” she says, her voice trembling slightly, her eyes pleading, a mix of love and fear in her gaze. I want to—God, I want to—but Amanda’s too big, too real, and I’m not ready. “I can’t,” I rasp, turning away, my throat tight, my chest aching with the weight of my silence. She doesn’t push, just sighs, the sound heavy with frustration, and I feel her slipping, the gap between us widening. I’m wrestling alone, and it’s tearing me apart.

Sunday night, I’m staring at the ceiling, Lauren asleep beside me, therapy looming tomorrow, and Amanda’s steady, a rock I can’t move. You’re both, she says again, her voice calm, certain, and I don’t fight her. I’m exhausted—40 years of war, and she’s still here, named, alive. What happens if I let her live? The question’s a knife, cutting both ways—fear of losing Connor, fear of losing her. I think of Jake and Mia, of the life I’ve built, of Lauren’s worried eyes, and the weight of it all presses down, a burden I can’t carry alone anymore. I don’t sleep. I wrestle, pinned by a truth I can’t outrun, and Tuesday’s coming, ready or not.

Chapter 13: Coming Clean

Tuesday, June 3, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

I’m back in Dr. Hart’s office, 11:58 a.m., a walking wound, the beige walls and ticking clock pressing in like a vice. The week’s been a grind—sleepless nights, Lauren’s worried glances over breakfast, Amanda’s voice a constant hum I can’t mute. You’re both, she’d said Sunday, a splinter I can’t pull out, and I’m here, sober, no bourbon to lean on, just me—raw, shaky, teetering. I sink into the armchair before the clock hits noon, Dr. Hart across from me, notepad in lap, glasses catching the light. “You’re here,” she says, a faint smile playing on her lips, her voice steady like always. “That’s something.” Amanda’s quiet, not pushing, just waiting. Tell her everything, she whispers, soft but firm, and I clench my jaw, not ready.

“You’re steadier,” Dr. Hart says, settling back, her pen poised. “Less hollow. What’s shifted?” I rub my neck, stubble rough under my fingers, the question digging deep. “Feeling stuff,” I say, low, my voice gravelly. “Her—Amanda. She’s… here. Not fighting, just… me.” Amanda’s voice hums, soft, a warm thread in my chest. Always. Dr. Hart nods, her eyes sharp but kind. “That’s progress. She’s not a secret here. How’s that sitting with you?” I lean forward, elbows on my knees, my voice tight, barely above a whisper. “Scary as hell. Lauren doesn’t know. I want to tell her—need to—but I don’t know how. I’m stuck.”

She sets the notepad down, her gaze steady, unyielding. “Stuck’s a good place to start. What’s stopping you?” Amanda’s there, urging, her voice clear. Fear. I swallow, my throat dry as sandpaper. “Everything. What if she hates me? Leaves? Twenty-four years, and I drop this—‘Hey, I’ve been dressing as a woman since I was four’? She’ll think I’m a liar, a freak.” My hands shake, and Dr. Hart’s calm, unshaken, her voice a lifeline. “Maybe. Or maybe she’ll see you—really see you. Why do you think she’ll hate you?”

I falter, the question a knife twisting in my gut. “Because it’s… weird. Wrong. A man’s not supposed to—” Amanda cuts in, sharp, her voice a spark. Says who? Dr. Hart echoes, her tone precise, cutting through my haze. “Says who, Connor? You’ve carried that rule 40 years. Where’d it come from?” My chest caves—small town, church pews, Dad’s voice booming: Be a man. “Growing up,” I mutter, the words heavy, bitter. “Everyone. Me.” She tilts her head, her expression softening. “And Amanda’s proof it’s not true. She’s you—not wrong, just you. Lauren’s stuck with you through drinking, shutting down. Why not this?”

I’m reeling, but she’s right—Lauren’s fought for me, waited through my silent nights, my bourbon-soaked excuses. Amanda’s warm, insistent. She loves you. I rub my face, raw, my voice breaking. “I don’t know how to say it. ‘Hi, honey, meet Amanda’? She’ll freak.” Dr. Hart smiles, small but encouraging. “Maybe at first. But let’s figure it out. What do you want her to know?” I pause, Amanda’s voice clear, steady. Me. Us. “That it’s me,” I say, slow, the words forming like clay. “Not a phase, not a lie—just me. That I’ve hid it because I was scared, not because I don’t love her.”

She nods, her pen scratching a quick note. “Good. That’s the core. How do you get there? Words, a letter, showing her?” My gut lurches—showing her, dresses, heels—but I shove it down. “Talking,” I say, firm, my resolve hardening. “Face-to-face. She deserves that.” Amanda hums, proud, a warm glow in my chest. Yes. Dr. Hart leans in, her voice gentle but firm. “Okay. Let’s practice. Pretend I’m Lauren. Tell me.” My pulse spikes, but I nod, shaky, and close my eyes, picturing her—hazel eyes, silver strands in her dark hair, waiting, always waiting.

“Lauren,” I start, my voice trembling, the words spilling out raw, “there’s something I’ve never told you. It’s… big. Part of me. Since I was a kid, I’ve—God, this is hard—I’ve dressed. As a woman. Not all the time, but… a lot. Her name’s Amanda. She’s me, and I’ve hid her because I was ashamed, scared you’d leave. But I can’t anymore. I love you, and I’m terrified, but she’s real, and I need you to know.” I stop, my breath ragged, eyes wet, and open them. Dr. Hart’s watching, steady, her expression soft. “How’d that feel?” she asks, her voice a quiet anchor.

“Like dying,” I choke, half-laughing, wiping my face with my sleeve. “But… right. True.” Amanda’s warm, solid, a steady presence. You did it. Dr. Hart nods, her smile widening. “It’s raw, honest. She might need time, might be shocked, but that’s you—both of you. When do you want to try?” My stomach flips—tonight, tomorrow, never—but Amanda’s firm, her voice a quiet push. Soon. “Soon,” I echo, hoarse, my hands still trembling. “Not sure when, but soon.” She smiles, full this time, her eyes warm. “You’re ready when you’re ready. But you’ve got the words. She’s strong—she’s stayed. Give her a chance to stay with this.”

The session ends, and I’m drained but grounded, Amanda a partner now, not a ghost. I drive home, rehearsing—Lauren, there’s something—and feel it: fear, yes, but a thread of hope weaving through. Lauren’s in the kitchen when I walk in, stirring tea, her back to me, the familiar scent of chamomile filling the air. She looks up, curious, her hazel eyes catching mine. “Good session?” she asks, her voice light but edged with something I can’t place—worry, maybe, or hope. I nod, slow, my heart pounding. “Yeah. Working on something.” She smiles, tentative, her fingers tightening on the mug, and I feel Amanda nudge, soft but firm. Soon. Not tonight, but soon. I’m not numb—I’m alive, wrestling, and closer than ever to letting her in.

Chapter 14: The Plunge

Thursday, June 19, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that presses in, heavy with what’s coming, the clock ticking past 8:00 p.m. Dishes are done, the TV off, and Lauren’s on the couch with a book—some mystery she’s half-reading, her glasses slipping down her nose, her dark hair with its silver strands catching the lamplight. I’m in the kitchen, wiping the counter for the third time, my hands restless, Amanda a steady hum in my chest, her presence a warm weight. Soon, I’d told Dr. Hart over two weeks ago, and it’s gnawed at me since—every glance from Lauren, every unspoken question in her hazel eyes, the way she’s watched me closer these past days, like she knows something’s coming. Tonight, it’s now. I can’t wait anymore. Amanda’s here, real, and Lauren deserves to know.

I toss the sponge in the sink, take a breath—deep, shaky—and walk to the living room, my boots thudding soft on the hardwood. Lauren looks up, curious, setting the book down, her glasses now in her hand. “You okay?” she asks, her voice light but edged, like she’s been waiting for this, her brow furrowing slightly as she studies me. I stop, hands in my pockets, my heart slamming against my ribs. Amanda’s there, firm, her voice a quiet push. Now. “Can we talk?” I say, rougher than I mean, my voice catching, and her expression shifts—concern, yes, but something else, a flicker of fear in her eyes. She sets her glasses on the table, her movements slow, deliberate, and pats the cushion beside her. “Yeah,” she says, her tone softer now, but there’s a tension in her shoulders. “What’s up?”

I sit, too close, too far, my elbows on my knees, staring at the coffee table, unable to meet her gaze yet. “It’s big,” I start, my voice low, trembling, and Amanda nudges, warm, encouraging. Go on. Lauren shifts, facing me, her hands clasped tight in her lap, her knuckles pale. “Big how?” she asks, her voice steady but thin, and I feel her—24 years of her—steady, strong, the storm I’ve anchored to through every mess I’ve made. I can’t look at her yet, my throat tight, the words clawing their way out. “Something I’ve never told you,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “About me. Been hiding it… forever.” My hands clench, and she’s quiet, waiting, the air thick with anticipation. “Just say it, Connor,” she says, soft but firm, her tone a mix of patience and urgency, and that’s it—the dam breaks.

“Since I was a kid,” I blurt, raw, the words spilling out messy and unpracticed, “I’ve… dressed. As a woman. Not all the time, but a lot. Started with my cousin’s shoes, my mom’s dresses—four years old, sneaking, hiding. She’s got a name—Amanda. She’s me, Lauren, part of me, and I’ve buried her, hated her, drank her away, but she’s real. I’ve lied to you—not about us, never about us—but about this, because I was scared you’d leave, scared I’d lose you, everything. I can’t hide her anymore. I love you, and I’m terrified, but this is me.” It spills out, a flood, tears burning my eyes, and I finally look at her—her face pale, eyes wide, mouth parted, frozen in a way I’ve never seen her, like the ground’s shifted beneath her.

Silence stretches, a knife’s edge, and Amanda’s still, waiting, her presence a quiet anchor. Lauren blinks, slow, her breath shallow, then sets her book aside, her hands trembling as she runs them through her hair, a gesture I know means she’s trying to process, to hold herself together. “Amanda,” she repeats, faint, testing the name, her voice cracking on the edges. “You… dress as her?” Her eyes dart to mine, searching, a mix of shock and something I can’t place—hurt, maybe, or betrayal. I nod, fast, my throat raw, my voice barely a whisper. “Yeah. Since forever. Not lately, but—yeah. It’s me.”

She leans back, exhaling hard, staring past me at the wall, her hands now gripping the edge of the couch like she’s bracing for a storm. I feel it—panic, dread—but she doesn’t run, doesn’t yell. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, her voice quiet, laced with hurt, her eyes still fixed on the wall, like she can’t look at me yet. Amanda hums, soft, urging. Truth. “Shame,” I choke, the word heavy, bitter. “Thought you’d think I’m… wrong. A freak. Thought I’d lose you.” My tears spill over, hot on my cheeks, and I wipe them with my sleeve, my hands shaking.

Her eyes snap back to me, wet now, sharp, a storm brewing in them, and her voice rises, trembling but fierce. “Lose me?” she says, her tone cracking with emotion. “Connor, I’ve watched you drink yourself sick, shut me out, fall apart—and I’m still here. You think a dress changes that?” She laughs, bitter, swiping at her face with the back of her hand, her tears falling freely now. “God, I’m mad—24 years, and you didn’t trust me? I thought we were… everything.” Her voice breaks, and she looks down, her hands twisting together, her shoulders hunching like she’s carrying the weight of my secret now. “But lose me? No.” I’m reeling, my chest aching with guilt, with relief, and she grabs my hand, hard, her grip fierce despite the tremble in her fingers. “You’re an idiot,” she says, softer now, her voice thick with tears, “but you’re my idiot. I don’t get it—not yet—but I’m not going anywhere.”

Amanda’s warm, a flood in my chest, and I sob, gripping her hand back, my tears falling faster. “I didn’t know how,” I whisper, broken, my voice raw. “Still don’t. She’s me, and I’m scared, but I couldn’t lie anymore.” Lauren nods, slow, her tears falling onto her lap, and she pulls me in—awkward, tight, her breath shaky against my shoulder, her arms a storm of love and hurt wrapping around me. “We’ll figure it out,” she says, muffled against my shirt, her voice fierce despite the tremble. “You and me—and her, I guess. Amanda.” She says the name, testing it, her tone a mix of uncertainty and resolve, and I feel it—relief, terror, love, all at once. The plunge is done, and I’m not alone.

We sit there, tangled on the couch, quiet, her hand in mine, the weight lifting but shifting—new, unknown, a space we’ve never crossed. Amanda’s there, real, named, and Lauren knows. I don’t know what’s next, but it’s started, and I can feel her—Lauren, my storm—holding steady, even as she wrestles with the pieces I’ve just handed her.

Chapter 15: Tangled Threads

Friday, June 20, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

I wake before the sun, 5:47 a.m., the bedroom still dark except for the faint glow of streetlights slipping through the blinds. Lauren’s beside me, her breathing slow, her arm flung over the pillow, silver strands of her hair catching the dim light. Last night’s confession—Amanda’s name out, my tears on her shoulder, her fierce grip on my hand—sits heavy in the quiet, a weight I’ve carried 40 years now shared, but not settled. I’m 46, raw, a man who’s cracked himself open, and I don’t know what’s left. Amanda’s a hum in my chest, not pushing, just here. She knows, she says, soft, and I feel it—relief, dread, a tangle I can’t unpick.

I slip out of bed, careful not to wake her, and pad to the kitchen in socks and a T-shirt, the coffee pot hissing to life, the familiar sound a small comfort. The house feels different—same creaky floors, same fridge hum, but heavier, like it’s waiting for what’s next. I lean on the counter, mug steaming, and replay it—She’s me, Lauren, I’ve hid her, I love you—her wide eyes, her bitter laugh, her voice, sharp but steady: I’m not going anywhere. My throat tightens, and Amanda’s there, warm, a quiet anchor. She stayed. I sip the coffee, bitter on my tongue, and wonder what happens now. Do I show her more? Explain? Hide again?

Lauren’s footsteps break the quiet, soft on the stairs, and she appears—hair mussed, robe tied loose, eyes puffy from last night’s tears, her face a map of exhaustion and resolve. “Morning,” she says, her voice rough, grabbing a mug from the cabinet, her movements slow, deliberate, like she’s still piecing herself together. I nod, tense, watching her pour, her hands steady but her shoulders hunched, a sign I know means she’s carrying something heavy. “Morning,” I mutter, my voice low, and she glances at me, her hazel eyes searching, tired but sharp, a flicker of something—hurt, curiosity, love—swirling in them. It’s there—awkward, new, a space we’ve never crossed. She sits at the table, I stay standing, and the silence stretches, thick with unspoken words, until she breaks it. “So,” she says, staring into her coffee, her fingers tapping the rim, a nervous habit I’ve seen a thousand times, “Amanda.” My pulse jumps, and I grip my mug tighter, Amanda warm, alert. Here.

“Yeah,” I mutter, low, my voice barely audible, and she looks up, her eyes locking on mine, her expression a mix of determination and vulnerability. “I didn’t sleep much,” she admits, her voice cracking slightly, and I wince—guilt, fresh and sharp, slicing through me. “Me either,” I say, and Amanda hums, soft, a quiet encouragement. She’s trying. Lauren sets the mug down, her fingers still tapping, her gaze dropping to the table, then back to me, her brow furrowing as she speaks. “I keep seeing you—24 years, all those quiet nights, and her… there. How’d you hide it so long?” Her voice wavers, hurt but curious, and I sit, slow, across from her, needing to face this, to see her as she wrestles with my truth.

“Shame,” I say, raw, the word heavy on my tongue. “Fear. Locked her in a box—sometimes literally. Dresses, sketches, trashed when I could. Drank when I couldn’t.” Her brow furrows deeper, her lips pressing into a thin line, and I see her processing, her eyes narrowing as she pieces it together, her hands stilling on the table. “Dresses,” she repeats, soft, like she’s picturing it, her voice tinged with a mix of disbelief and curiosity. “When?” I swallow, Amanda nudging, her voice a quiet push. Truth. “Kid stuff—Mom’s closet, sister’s leotards. Teen years, sneaking. Later, rare—hotel rooms, once here when you were gone. Last month, a thrift store skirt, a park. Panicked, purged it. Therapy brought her back.” Lauren’s eyes widen, then narrow again, her breath hitching as she connects the dots, her voice barely a whisper. “That’s why—the drinking, the shutting down.” I nod, ashamed, my gaze dropping to my mug. “Yeah. Fighting her. Losing.”

She leans back, exhaling hard, her hands running through her hair again, a gesture I know means she’s overwhelmed, and I feel it—panic, dread—but she doesn’t run. “You’re still you,” she says, quiet, almost to herself, her voice trembling as she looks at me, her eyes searching for the man she’s known, the man she loves. “Connor—my Connor—but her, too.” Amanda’s warm, alive, a thread weaving in. Us. I nod, my throat tight, my voice barely a whisper. “Yeah. Both. Didn’t know how to tell you. Still don’t know what it means.” She reaches across, hesitant, her hand trembling as she touches mine—light, testing, her fingers cool against my skin. “Me either,” she says, her voice cracking, tears welling in her eyes again. “But I meant it—I’m here. Just… don’t hide again, okay?” Her tone is pleading, her grip tightening, and I see the fear in her, the need to know I won’t shut her out again.

Tears prick my eyes, and I turn my hand, grip hers back, my voice a shaky promise. “Okay,” I whisper, and it’s real, raw, a vow I mean to keep. Amanda’s there, a thread weaving in, not separate anymore. Lauren pulls back, sips her coffee, her movements slow, then asks, tentative, her voice softer now, almost shy. “What’s she like? Amanda?” My breath catches—first time she’s asked, really asked—and I falter, unsure, my mind racing. “Soft,” I say, slow, the words forming carefully. “Not weak—strong, but soft. Loves dresses, heels, ballet stuff. Free, when I let her be.” Lauren nods, absorbing, a faint smile tugging at her lips, her eyes softening as she looks at me, like she’s trying to see Amanda in me, to understand. “Sounds… pretty,” she says, her voice warm but tinged with uncertainty, and I blush, raw, caught, my face burning.

We sit there, coffee cooling, the morning unfolding—fragile, new, a start. She doesn’t ask more, not yet, and I don’t push, but it’s out—Amanda’s here, between us, not a secret. Amanda’s warm, content, and I feel it: a foundation, cracked but steady, ready for whatever we lay next. Lauren’s still watching me, her expression a mix of love and lingering hurt, and I know this isn’t over—she’s got questions, fears, and so do I. But she’s here, her hand still in mine, and that’s enough for now.

Chapter 16: A Fragile Truce

Saturday, June 21, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

The kitchen’s warm with the smell of pancakes—Lauren at the stove, flipping them with a practiced flick, me at the table with coffee, the morning sun spilling gold across the floor. It’s been a day since I told her about Amanda, since that raw morning over coffee when she asked what Amanda’s like, her faint smile—Sounds… pretty—still echoing in my mind. The air’s lighter now, not weightless—there’s still a thread of tension, a question in every glance—but it’s ours, shared, not hidden. Amanda’s here, a hum in my chest, not pushing, just present. We’re home, she says, soft, and I sip my coffee, feeling her settle, feeling the fragile truce we’ve struck.

Lauren slides a plate in front of me—two pancakes, syrup pooling—and sits across, her own stack steaming, her hazel eyes catching mine over her mug. “Sleep okay?” she asks, her tone casual but her gaze sharp, searching, like she’s checking for cracks, making sure I’m still here. I nod, slow, my voice low. “Better. You?” She shrugs, a half-smile tugging at her lips, but there’s a shadow in her eyes, a lingering weight. “Some,” she says, her voice steady but edged, and I see her fingers tighten on her mug, a small sign of the tension she’s holding. “Still… thinking a lot.” Her words hang, heavy with Amanda’s name, and I feel it, the unspoken question in her tone.

“Yeah,” I say, cutting into the pancake, the fork scraping the plate, “me too.” She nods, her smile fading slightly, and we eat, the clink of forks loud in the quiet, a new rhythm we’re learning. I watch her, the way her brow furrows slightly, the way she chews slowly, like her mind’s elsewhere, and I know she’s wrestling with it—24 years, and this piece of me she never knew. After breakfast, she lingers, wiping the counter, her movements deliberate, while I’m washing dishes, suds up to my wrists. “So,” she says, hesitant, tossing the rag aside, her voice softer now, “Amanda.” My hands still, water dripping, and Amanda’s warm, alert. Here. I turn, leaning on the sink, and meet her gaze, her arms crossed, not defensive, just thinking, her expression a mix of curiosity and uncertainty.

“Yeah?” I say, my voice rough, and she tilts her head, her eyes searching mine, her lips pressing together like she’s choosing her words carefully. “You said she’s… free. Loves dresses, soft stuff. I keep picturing it—you, her—and I don’t know what that looks like. Here.” Her voice wavers, a mix of curiosity and fear, and I see her hands tighten on her arms, her shoulders hunching slightly, like she’s bracing herself for my answer. I dry my hands, slow, buying time, my pulse jumping. “It’s not… big,” I start, my voice halting, raw. “Not all the time. Just… moments. When I let her out—dresses, heels, feeling… right. Not sneaking now, I guess. With you knowing.” Amanda hums, encouraging. Show her. My heart races, but Lauren’s expression softens, her arms uncrossing, her voice tentative. “Moments,” she repeats, testing the word, her eyes flickering with something—understanding, maybe, or a desire to see. “Like what? That park you mentioned?”

I nod, raw, my throat tight. “Yeah. Skirt, heels—mine, not borrowed. Sat by a pond, just… being her. Felt alive, then scared. Trashed it after.” Her frown deepens, her eyes narrowing, and I see the hurt flash across her face, her voice sharp but quiet. “Why trash it?” she asks, her tone laced with frustration, like she’s trying to understand but can’t quite reach me. “Panic,” I say, quick, honest, my voice trembling. “Thought it’d ruin us—you, me, everything. Didn’t want to lose this.” Amanda’s steady, warm. Lauren steps closer, her eyes wet but her jaw set, her voice softening. “You idiot,” she says, a laugh breaking through, small and shaky, her hand reaching for mine. “I’m not running. I just… want to see her, I think. Understand.” Her fingers tremble as they touch mine, and I see the effort in her, the way she’s pushing past her fear, her hurt, to meet me here.

My throat tightens, and Amanda’s loud, alive. Let me out. “See her?” I echo, shaky, my voice barely above a whisper, and she nods, tentative, her grip on my hand firming, her eyes searching mine. “Yeah. If you want. Here, safe.” Her voice is soft, pleading almost, and I’m reeling—dresses, here, with her—but her touch is warm, real, and I feel it: trust, fragile but growing. “Maybe,” I say, hoarse, my heart pounding. “Not today, but… maybe.” Amanda’s thrilled, a spark in my chest, and Lauren squeezes my hand, a small smile breaking through, her eyes brightening despite the tears. “Okay. Whenever you’re ready,” she says, her voice steady now, and I see the resolve in her, the way she’s holding space for this, for me, even as it shakes her.

The day unfolds—work calls for me, errands for her—but it’s different, a thread weaving tighter between us. Evening finds us on the couch, the TV on low, her feet in my lap, her warmth grounding me, and she asks, quiet, her voice softer now, almost shy. “What’s her favorite?” I blink, caught, my mind racing. “Favorite what?” I ask, and she grins, a little shy, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Dress. You said she loves them.” Amanda’s warm, delighted. Tell her. “Pink,” I say, soft, a memory spilling out, raw. “Polka dots, knee-length. Mom’s, back then. Felt like… flying.” Lauren nods, picturing it, her expression softening, and she rests her head on my shoulder, her voice a murmur. “Sounds pretty,” she says, and I feel it—Amanda, Connor, us—stitching together, slow and real, her willingness to ask, to see, a small but vital step in this fragile truce we’re building.

Chapter 17: Building Trust

Tuesday, June 24, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

We’re in the truck outside Dr. Hart’s office, 11:55 a.m., Lauren beside me, her hands clasped tight in her lap, her fingers twisting together, a nervous habit I’ve seen a thousand times. The past four days have been a quiet storm since I told her about Amanda—awkward talks over coffee, her questions (“When?” “Why?”), my halting answers, and the fragile truce we’ve struck holding us together. Saturday night, after she asked about Amanda’s favorite dress, her willingness to see her, I’d said, “Therapy’s Tuesday. Come with me?” She’d paused, mid-sip of tea, her hazel eyes flickering with uncertainty, then nodded, slow, her voice soft but firm. “Yeah. I want to.” Now we’re here, engine off, the air thick with nerves, her silence heavy beside me. Amanda’s a hum, steady but cautious. She’s here for us, she says, soft, and I grip the wheel, unsure, my hands sweaty.

Lauren looks at me, her hazel eyes shadowed, resolute, but I see the tension in her jaw, the way her shoulders are set, like she’s bracing herself. “Ready?” she asks, her voice low, a slight tremble in it, and I nod, not trusting mine, my throat tight. We walk in, her arm brushing mine, and the waiting room feels smaller with her here—clock ticking, beige walls closing in, the air charged with what we’re about to unpack. Dr. Hart opens her door at noon, spots Lauren, and smiles, calm, her presence a steady anchor. “Good to see you both,” she says, ushering us in, her voice warm. I take the armchair, Lauren the couch, close but separate, her hands still clasped tight, and Dr. Hart sits, notepad ready, glasses perched. “Lauren, you’re new here,” she says, her tone gentle, inviting. “What brought you today?”

Lauren shifts, glances at me, then back at Dr. Hart, her posture stiff, her voice steady but thin. “He told me,” she says, her words careful, measured. “Last week—Amanda. I’m… trying to understand.” Her eyes flicker to me, a mix of hurt and determination in them, and my chest tightens, Amanda’s voice soft, encouraging. She’s trying. Dr. Hart nods, turning to me, her gaze sharp but kind. “Big step, Connor. How’s it been since?” I rub my hands, rough on my jeans, my voice hoarse. “Weird,” I say, raw. “Good, bad—both. She knows now. We’re talking, but I don’t know where we’re at.” Lauren nods, faint, her lips pressing together, and I see the effort in her, the way she’s holding herself together, her hands still twisting in her lap.

Dr. Hart looks between us, her expression steady. “Let’s figure that out. Lauren, what’s on your mind?” Lauren exhales, a shaky breath, her hands tightening, her voice low, trembling slightly. “It’s a lot,” she says, slow, her eyes darting to the floor, then back to Dr. Hart. “Twenty-four years, and I didn’t see it. Amanda—she’s him, and I get that, sort of—but I don’t. Why hide it so long? Was I… not enough?” Her voice cracks, her eyes welling with tears, and I flinch, guilt sharp, slicing through me like a blade. I see the hurt in her, the way her shoulders slump, the way her hands tremble, and I know she’s been carrying this question since Thursday night, maybe longer.

Amanda’s there, urging, her voice a quiet push. Tell her. I lean forward, raw, my voice breaking. “No, Lauren—it’s not you. Never you. I hid her because I was ashamed, scared—small-town stuff, my head, not you. You’re everything. I just… couldn’t let her out.” My words spill out, desperate, and I see her blink, her tears falling, her expression softening slightly, but the hurt lingers, a shadow in her eyes. Dr. Hart nods, gentle, her voice calm. “Fear’s a big wall, Lauren. He’s tearing it down now. What do you need to understand her—him?”

Lauren looks at me, her eyes wet, searching, her voice softer now, almost pleading. “What’s she like?” she asks, echoing her question from Friday, but there’s a deeper need in her tone now, a desire to truly know. “Not just dresses—what’s she?” I swallow, Amanda warm, alive, her presence a steady anchor. “She’s… me, but free,” I say, halting, the words forming slowly. “Quiet, strong. Loves soft things—silk, ballet, being… seen. She’s been there since I was four, fighting to breathe. I locked her up, but she’s not bad. She’s just… me.” Lauren nods, slow, processing, her hands stilling in her lap, her expression shifting—less hurt, more curious, like she’s trying to fit Amanda into the man she knows.

Dr. Hart jumps in, her voice gentle. “Lauren, how’s that land?” Lauren wipes her face, shaky, her voice quiet but steadier now. “It’s him,” she says, her eyes meeting mine, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I see it—those quiet nights, the way he’d watch me sometimes, like he was… longing for something. I just didn’t know her name.” Amanda hums, warm, a flood in my chest. She sees. Lauren turns to me, her expression softening, but there’s still a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “I’m not mad anymore—just confused. What do you need now? With her?” My throat’s tight, and Dr. Hart leans in, encouraging. “Good question, Connor. What do you need?”

I’m shaking, the words hard to find, but Amanda’s there, solid, a lifeline. “To not hide,” I say, raw, my voice trembling. “Let her be… here. With you. Not sneaking, not ashamed. I don’t know how, but I need that.” Amanda’s presence is fierce, a quiet promise. Us. Lauren nods, tentative, her hand reaching for mine across the space, her fingers trembling but warm. “Okay,” she says, soft, her voice cracking with emotion. “I can try that. But I need time—and you to talk, not shut me out.” Her grip tightens, her eyes locking on mine, and I see the plea in them, the need to know I’m in this with her.

I grip her hand, sudden, fierce, my voice a promise. “I won’t,” I say, raw, and Amanda’s there, a steady hum. Never. Dr. Hart smiles, small, her eyes warm. “That’s a start. You’re both here, seeing each other. Lauren, what scares you most?” Lauren pauses, her breath hitching, her voice a whisper. “Losing him,” she says, her tears falling faster now, and I choke, my own tears hot, my chest aching. “You won’t,” I rasp, my grip on her hand tightening, and Amanda’s fierce, a quiet vow. Never. Dr. Hart nods, her voice steady. “He’s not going anywhere—and neither’s Amanda. You’re building something new. It’s messy, but it’s honest.”

The session ends, Lauren’s hand still in mine, and we stand, unsteady but together, a unit now, fragile but real. Dr. Hart says, “Next week?” and we nod, her smile encouraging as we head out. Outside, Lauren squeezes my hand, her eyes bright, a mix of hope and lingering fear in them. “We’re okay,” she says, her voice a question, a hope, and I nod, raw, my throat tight. “Yeah. We’re okay.” Amanda’s quiet, content, and we drive home, the silence lighter, a new thread weaving us tight, her willingness to be here, to try, a small but vital step in building trust.

Chapter 18: Edges of Light

Monday, June 30, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

The house hums with late afternoon stillness, the kind that settles after work but before dinner, sunlight slanting through the kitchen windows in soft gold bars. Lauren’s in the living room, grading papers—high school English, her red pen scratching steady—while I’m in the kitchen, chopping carrots for stew, the knife’s rhythm a shaky anchor for my nerves. It’s been six days since therapy, since Lauren gripped my hand and said she’d try, since she admitted her fear of losing me, her willingness to understand Amanda. Her question from Saturday—What’s her favorite?—and her quiet Sounds pretty have been looping in my head, a constant nudge. Amanda’s a hum, warm and eager, pushing me since then. Now, she says, soft but firm, and my hands falter, a carrot rolling off the board.

I set the knife down, wipe my palms on my jeans, and feel it—a pull, not panic, not shame, just… time. Lauren’s here, safe, and she’s asked to see her, to understand. I’ve hid Amanda 40 years, named her, fought her, and now she’s out, and my wife wants to meet her. Let me, Amanda whispers, and I take a breath, deep, shaky, and call out, “Lauren?” Her pen stops, her head lifting, papers sliding to the couch as she peers over her glasses, her hazel eyes catching mine. “Yeah?” she says, her voice light but curious, a small smile tugging at her lips. I step to the doorway, my heart thudding, my hands trembling. “Can you… come upstairs? Got something to show you.”

Her brow furrows, a flicker of confusion crossing her face, but there’s a spark of anticipation in her eyes, like she knows what this might be. She stands, following me without a word—trust, unspoken, in her bare feet on the stairs, her presence a steady warmth behind me. Our bedroom’s dim, blinds half-open, casting long shadows across the bed, and I stop by the closet, Lauren behind me, close enough I feel her breath, her warmth. “What’s up?” she asks, her voice soft, a mix of curiosity and nervousness, her hands clasped in front of her, her knuckles pale. Amanda’s alive, buzzing, her voice a quiet push. Now. I turn, my hands trembling, and say, “Her. Amanda. You wanted to see.” Her eyes widen, her breath catching, and I see the shock in her, the way her lips part, but she nods, slow, steady, her voice barely a whisper. “Yeah. Okay.”

I open the closet—Lauren’s side, not mine—and hesitate, my fingers hovering over the hangers, my heart pounding. I pull out a dress—not the pink polka dots of my childhood, long gone, but a navy one, simple, knee-length, one she hasn’t worn in years. “Not hers,” I say, rough, holding it up, the fabric catching the light, “but close enough. Been a while, but… this is her.” Lauren steps closer, her eyes on the dress, then me, her hands tightening in front of her, her breath shallow. Amanda’s warm, urging. Go on. “I’d wear it,” I say, my voice low, trembling, “when you were gone, or imagined it. With tights, flats—soft stuff. Felt… right.” My face burns, shame creeping in, but she’s not running, just watching, her expression a mix of awe and uncertainty.

“Try it,” she says, sudden, soft, her voice trembling slightly, and I freeze, my grip tightening on the hanger. “What?” I choke, and Amanda’s thrilled, a spark in my chest. Yes. Lauren’s cheeks flush, but her gaze holds, steady, searching, her hands unclasping, one reaching out to touch the air between us, like she’s reaching for me. “If you want. Here, with me. I want to see… you. Her.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and I see the effort in her, the way her eyes are wet, the way her shoulders tense, like she’s both terrified and desperate to understand. My pulse races—fear, yes, but something else, light, breaking through—and I nod, slow, raw. “Okay,” I whisper, and she steps back, giving me space, sitting on the bed’s edge, her hands clasped again, her posture rigid, like she’s bracing herself.

I turn to the bathroom, door ajar, and change—shaky, fumbling, jeans off, T-shirt off, the dress sliding over my head, cool against my skin. No tights, no shoes—just this, simple, real. Amanda’s loud, alive. Look at us. I smooth the hem, my knees trembling, and catch my reflection in the mirror—broad shoulders softened by the fabric, my eyes too big, too alive. I’m not beautiful, not like I dreamed as a kid, but I’m her, and for the first time, I’m showing her to someone who matters. I step out, barefoot, the hem brushing my knees, and Lauren’s there, her eyes wide, her breath held, her hands stilling in her lap, her expression a mix of shock and something softer, something I cling to.

“That’s… her?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper, a tremor in it I can’t place—shock, maybe, or awe. I nod, my hands awkward at my sides, feeling the weight of her gaze, my voice trembling. “Yeah. Amanda.” I’m not hiding—not here, not from her. She stands, slow, crossing to me, her bare feet silent on the hardwood, and I see her eyes flicker—over the dress, my shoulders, my face, like she’s looking for me, for Connor, in this new shape. She stops close, her breath warm, and touches the sleeve, light, her fingers trembling just enough for me to notice, her voice soft, almost reverent. “You’re still you,” she says, a tear slipping down her cheek, “but… different. Softer.” Her voice cracks, and I see the struggle in her face, the way her brows knit, like she’s piecing together 24 years of me with this moment, her hand lingering on the sleeve, like she’s trying to feel Amanda through the fabric.

Amanda’s warm, a flood, and I choke a laugh, raw, tears pricking my own eyes. “That’s her. Free, like I said.” Lauren’s hand moves from the sleeve to my arm, steady now, her touch grounding me, and she looks up, her hazel eyes wet but searching, a small smile breaking through, shaky but real. “Hi, Amanda,” she says, testing the name, her voice deliberate, like she’s meeting someone new, someone important, and I feel it—relief, love, a stitch pulling tight. “Hi,” I whisper back, for us both, my throat tight, and she nods, her smile growing, her tears falling faster now. “I… I didn’t know what I’d feel,” she admits, her hand still on my arm, her thumb brushing my skin, her voice trembling. “It’s strange—seeing you like this—but it’s you. I see you, Connor. And her.” Her voice wavers, and I catch the hurt in it, the weight of 24 years I kept this from her, but there’s love too, fierce and unyielding, the storm I’ve always known her to be.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, the words spilling out, raw, my voice breaking. “For hiding her. I didn’t know how to—” She shakes her head, quick, cutting me off, her hand tightening on my arm, her eyes locking on mine. “Don’t,” she says, firm, her voice steady now, though her tears keep falling. “You’re here now. You’re showing me. That’s what matters.” Her voice softens, and she steps closer, her forehead resting against mine for a moment, her breath shaky, her warmth grounding me. “I just… I wish I’d known sooner. I wish you’d trusted me.” The words land heavy, a knife of guilt twisting in my gut, and Amanda’s there, warm but quiet, letting me feel it. “I do now,” I whisper, my hands finding hers, gripping tight, my voice raw. “I trust you now.”

She pulls back, wiping her face with the back of her hand, and laughs, small, broken, her eyes bright despite the tears. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere, you idiot.” Her tone’s teasing, but her eyes are serious, and I see the effort in her—the way she’s holding space for this, for me, for Amanda, even as it shakes her. “What’s it feel like?” she asks, stepping back, her hands on her hips now, studying me like I’m a puzzle she’s determined to solve, her voice curious, a little hesitant. “Wearing it, with me here?” I pause, Amanda humming, and say, raw, “Right. Scary, but right. Not sneaking—being. With you.” Her eyes soften, and she nods, slow, like she’s turning the words over in her mind, her voice thick. “Good,” she murmurs, her tone warm, encouraging. “I want that—for you. For us.”

She sits back on the bed, patting the space beside her, her posture relaxing slightly, and I join her, the dress swishing as I sit, the motion still foreign but less terrifying with her here. “It’s a lot,” she says after a moment, her hands clasped in her lap again, her gaze on the floor, her voice quieter now, more reflective. “I keep thinking—24 years, and I didn’t see her. But I did, in a way. Those quiet moments, the way you’d look at my shoes sometimes.” She laughs, soft, shaking her head, her eyes meeting mine, a warmth in them now. “I thought you just liked my style.” I blush, caught, and Amanda’s warm, delighted. She saw. “Maybe I did,” I mutter, my voice shy, and she looks at me, her smile real now, warm, her hand finding mine again. “Maybe you did.”

We sit there, the stew forgotten in the kitchen, the evening light fading to a soft gray, and I feel it—Amanda, Connor, us—stitching together, slow and real. Lauren leans her head on my shoulder, her warmth steady, and murmurs, “We’ll figure this out, right? You, me… her?” Her voice is a mix of hope and uncertainty, and I nod, my hand squeezing hers, my throat tight. “Yeah. We will.” Amanda’s a hum, content, and I know it’s true—this is the edge of something new, a light breaking through, fragile but growing, her willingness to see, to stay, a cornerstone in this space we’re building.

Chapter 19: Small Steps

Tuesday, July 1, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

We’re in the truck outside Dr. Hart’s office, 11:56 a.m., Lauren beside me, her hand resting light on my knee as I cut the engine, her touch a quiet anchor. Yesterday’s moment—me in that navy dress, her hand on my arm, Hi, Amanda—still hums between us, raw and real, a thread we’re holding tight but testing. Last night, we’d eaten stew in near silence, her foot brushing mine under the table, a quiet truce settling in, her small smile across the table a sign she’s still here, still trying. This morning, over coffee, she’d said, “I’ll come tomorrow. To therapy. Okay?” her voice soft but firm, her eyes searching mine, and I’d nodded, throat tight, grateful for her willingness to keep going. Now we’re here, her fingers tapping her knee, a nervous rhythm, my hands sweaty on the wheel. Amanda’s warm, steady. We’re together, she says, soft, and I feel it—nerves, yes, but hope too.

We walk in, Lauren’s arm brushing mine, and the waiting room’s familiar—clock ticking, beige walls—but it’s different with her here, a shared space now, her presence a steady warmth. Dr. Hart opens her door at noon, smiles at us both, her calm a lifeline. “Welcome back,” she says, ushering us in, her voice warm. I take the armchair, Lauren the couch, her hands clasped, her posture a little less tense than last week, and Dr. Hart sits, notepad ready, glasses catching the light. “You’re both here,” she says, her tone encouraging, her eyes flickering between us. “Something’s shifted. What’s new?”

I glance at Lauren, her nod small but sure, her eyes meeting mine with a quiet resolve, and I start, my voice rough. “I showed her,” I say, low, the words heavy but real. “Yesterday. Amanda. Wore a dress—hers, old one—at home. Let her see.” Amanda’s alive, humming, and Dr. Hart’s pen pauses, her eyes sharp, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Big step, Connor. How’d it feel?” Lauren shifts, watching me, her expression soft but attentive, and I rub my neck, raw, my voice trembling. “Scary,” I admit, the memory of her gaze still vivid. “But… right. Not hiding. She saw me—her—and didn’t run.” Amanda’s warm, proud. She stayed.

Dr. Hart turns to Lauren, her voice gentle. “You saw Amanda. What was that like?” Lauren exhales, slow, her fingers twisting in her lap, her eyes flickering to me, then back to Dr. Hart, her voice soft but honest. “Weird,” she says, a small laugh breaking through, her tone warm despite the uncertainty. “Him in that dress—navy, mine—but… him, still. Softer, like he said. I didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t bad. Just… new.” Her eyes meet mine, wet but steady, a small smile tugging at her lips, and I see the effort in her, the way she’s trying to hold this new piece of me, her hands stilling as she speaks. “I said hi to her. Felt right,” she adds, her voice cracking slightly, and I choke a nod, caught by the warmth in her tone, the way she’s embracing this, even as it challenges her.

Amanda’s a flood, warm, and Dr. Hart smiles, small, her eyes warm. “That’s powerful. Lauren, you’re meeting her—him—where he’s at. What’s stirring for you now?” Lauren leans back, her hands unclasping, her expression thoughtful, her voice quieter now, more reflective. “Questions,” she says, her eyes flickering to me, a mix of curiosity and uncertainty in them. “How far does she go? Is it just dresses, or… more? I’m okay—I think—but I don’t know what’s next.” Her voice wavers, and I see the fear in her, the way her brow furrows, like she’s picturing a future she can’t quite see, and Amanda’s there, soft, a quiet promise. Us.

I jump in, shaky, my voice raw. “I don’t either,” I say, the words spilling out, honest. “Been hiding so long, I don’t know where she fits. Dresses, yeah—soft stuff, feeling free. But with you knowing, it’s… open. Scary, but good.” Amanda’s presence is a warm thread, weaving through my words, and I see Lauren’s expression shift, her eyes softening, though there’s still a flicker of uncertainty in them, her hands resting in her lap now, less tense. Dr. Hart nods, steady, her voice calm. “You’re both exploring. Connor, what do you need from Lauren to keep this open?”

My throat tightens, and Amanda urges, warm, her voice a quiet push. Her. “Just… this,” I say, hoarse, my voice trembling. “You here, seeing her—me. Not pushing, but not pulling away. Time, I guess.” Lauren nods, fast, reaching for my hand across the space, her fingers warm, her grip firm despite the slight tremble I feel in her touch. “I can do that,” she says, her voice steady but thick with emotion, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I want to.” I see the resolve in her, the way her hazel eyes lock on mine, but there’s a vulnerability there too, a quiet plea for me to meet her halfway, to keep letting her in.

Dr. Hart leans in, her gaze shifting to Lauren. “Lauren, what do you need from him?” Lauren pauses, her breath hitching, her hand tightening on mine, her voice soft but sure. “Honesty,” she says, her tone firm, her eyes searching mine, a mix of love and lingering hurt in them. “No more boxes, no more drinking it down. Let me in—even when it’s hard.” Her words land heavy, a reminder of the walls I’ve built, the years I’ve shut her out, and I see the weight she’s carried, the way her shoulders slump slightly, like she’s been bracing for this for longer than I realized. I grip her hand, fierce, nodding, my voice raw. “I will,” I promise, and Amanda’s solid, a lifeline. We will.

Dr. Hart sets the notepad down, her eyes warm, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You’re building trust—both of you, with Amanda in the mix. It’s not smooth, but it’s real. What’s one thing you could try, together, to keep this going?” Lauren glances at me, hesitant, her fingers tapping my hand lightly, a nervous rhythm, then speaks, her voice soft, tentative. “Maybe… more?” she says, her eyes flickering to mine, a small smile breaking through, though I see the uncertainty in her, the way her brow furrows slightly. “Not big—just her, here and there. At home.” My pulse jumps, Amanda thrilled, a spark in my chest. Yes. “Like what?” I ask, shaky, my voice barely above a whisper, and she shrugs, her smile growing, her cheeks flushing slightly, a mix of nervousness and curiosity in her expression. “Another dress. Or… I don’t know, something you pick. Together.”

I’m reeling, the idea of choosing something for Amanda with Lauren both terrifying and exhilarating, but Dr. Hart nods, encouraging, her voice steady. “Small steps. Connor, how’s that sound?” Amanda’s loud, alive, her presence a warm flood. Perfect. “Good,” I say, raw, squeezing Lauren’s hand, my throat tight. “Scary, but good.” I see Lauren’s smile widen, a flicker of relief in her eyes, like she’s glad I’m willing to try, to keep going with her. The session ends, Lauren’s grip steady in mine, and Dr. Hart says, “Next week?” her tone warm, encouraging. We nod, rising together, a unit—shaky, new, but stronger, her willingness to keep exploring this with me a quiet promise I cling to.

Outside, Lauren leans into me, her arm brushing mine, her voice soft as we walk to the truck. “We’re doing this,” she murmurs, her tone a mix of wonder and determination, her hazel eyes bright despite the lingering uncertainty I see in them. I nod, Amanda warm between us, my voice raw. “Yeah. We are.” We drive home, the silence lighter, her hand resting on my knee again, a small gesture that feels like a lifeline, a sign she’s still here, still trying, even as we navigate this new terrain together.

Chapter 20: Choosing Together

Saturday, July 5, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

The house is quiet, mid-morning sun filtering through the kitchen windows, casting long shadows across the table where Lauren and I sit with coffee, the mugs steaming between us. It’s four days since she sat with me in Dr. Hart’s office, squeezed my hand, and suggested, Maybe more… something you pick. Together. The words have hung between us—soft, unforced, but heavy with possibility, a quiet invitation I’ve been turning over in my mind. Yesterday, over dinner, she’d nudged again, her tone casual but pointed, her hazel eyes catching mine across the table: “Thought about it yet? Amanda stuff?” I’d nodded, nerves sparking, and now here we are, the air charged with a new kind of anticipation. Amanda’s a hum, warm and eager, her presence a steady encouragement. This is us, she says, soft, and I feel it—a step, small but real.

Lauren sets her coffee down, leans forward, her elbows on the table, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, searching, a small smile tugging at her lips. “So,” she says, her voice light but deliberate, “what’s the idea? You said ‘maybe’ in therapy.” I rub my neck, stubble rough under my fingers, and Amanda nudges, encouraging, her voice a quiet push. Tell her. “Yeah,” I start, low, my voice trembling slightly, “been thinking. Something simple—not big. Maybe… we pick something. For her. Together, like you said.” Her brow lifts, her smile widening, a flicker of excitement in her eyes, though I see a hint of nervousness in the way her fingers tap the mug, a small sign she’s still adjusting to this.

“Pick something?” she asks, her tone curious, her head tilting slightly, her silver-streaked hair catching the light. “Like what?” I swallow, shaky but sure, my voice low. “A dress. Nothing fancy—just… hers. Ours.” Her eyes widen slightly, a mix of surprise and intrigue crossing her face, and I see her process the idea, her lips pressing together for a moment before she nods, slow, her smile growing. “Okay,” she says, her voice soft, warm, though there’s a tremor in it, a sign she’s still navigating this new space. “Where? Store? Online?” My pulse jumps—out there, public, or here, safe—and Amanda’s steady, warm, her voice a quiet guide. Here first. “Online,” I say, quick, my voice firm. “Start easy. Look together, here.” Lauren’s smile widens, a flicker of relief in her eyes, like she’s glad I’m keeping this private, safe, just us for now. “Deal,” she says, her tone lighter now, grabbing her laptop from the counter, sliding it between us, her movements eager but careful. “Let’s see what Amanda likes.” My chest tightens—her saying the name, casual, like it’s normal—and Amanda’s thrilled, alive, a warm flood in my chest. Yes.

She opens the browser, types “dresses,” and a flood of options spills across the screen—florals, solids, long, short, a dizzying array of choices. I lean in, my shoulder brushing hers, and it’s surreal—us, shopping, for her, together, like it’s just another Saturday morning task. “What’s her style?” Lauren asks, scrolling, her voice curious, her eyes flickering to me, a genuine interest in her tone that makes my throat tight. I pause, Amanda humming, her presence a warm guide. “Soft,” I say, rough, the words forming slowly. “Not tight—flowy. Knee-length, maybe. Colors—pink, blue, stuff like that.” She nods, clicks a filter, and the screen shifts—pastels, loose cuts, simple lines, more Amanda’s speed. “Like this?” she asks, pointing to a light blue dress, sleeveless, a faint pattern of leaves, her finger hovering over the screen, her eyes darting to mine, a mix of curiosity and hope in them.

I look, feel Amanda stir, warm, her voice soft. Pretty, she says, and I nod, shy, my voice low. “Yeah. That’s her.” Lauren glances at me, her eyes softening, a small smile tugging at her lips, and she adds it to the cart, her movements deliberate, like she’s savoring this moment, this small act of connection. “Okay,” she says, then scrolls more, her enthusiasm growing, though I see a flicker of uncertainty in her, the way her brow furrows slightly, like she’s still adjusting to this new piece of me. “What about this?” she asks, pointing to a pink one, subtle stripes, flared skirt, her voice lighter now, a hint of playfulness in it. Amanda’s louder, delighted, her presence a warm spark. Yes. “That too,” I say, my voice steadier now, and she adds it, a small laugh breaking through, her eyes bright. “Two already? She’s got taste,” she teases, her tone warm, and I blush, raw but warm, my face burning. “Guess so,” I mutter, and Amanda’s a flood, happy, her joy echoing in my chest.

We pick a third—pale green, buttons down the front—before she closes the laptop, the total hovering under a hundred bucks. “Done,” she says, firm, hitting order, then looks at me, her expression serious now, her hands resting on the table, her fingers tapping lightly, a nervous habit I know well. “When they come… you’ll wear one? With me?” Her voice is soft, a mix of hope and uncertainty, and I see the effort in her, the way her eyes search mine, like she’s both eager and afraid of what this next step means. My breath catches, Amanda eager, her voice a quiet push. Say yes. “Yeah,” I whisper, raw, my throat tight. “With you.” She reaches across, her hand on mine, steady, her grip warm, grounding, her eyes softening, a flicker of relief in them. “Good,” she says, her voice thick with emotion, her thumb brushing my knuckles. “I want to see her—really see her. Us.” Tears prick my eyes, and I squeeze back, a knot loosening in my chest, her willingness to keep going, to see Amanda, a small but vital step in this journey we’re on.

The day moves on—yard work, groceries—but it’s lighter, a promise in the air, her small smiles across the kitchen, her teasing nudge as we unload bags, a quiet ease settling between us. Evening finds us on the porch, her head on my shoulder, stars pricking the sky, the air warm with summer. “This is weird, huh?” she murmurs, her voice soft, a mix of wonder and amusement, her hand resting on my arm, her touch a quiet anchor. I laugh, soft, Amanda warm between us, my voice raw. “Yeah. Weird and… good.” She nods, her head pressing closer, her voice a whisper. “I’m glad we’re doing this. Together.” I feel it—Amanda, Connor, us—stitching tighter, her willingness to be part of this, to choose with me, a small step weaving us closer, Amanda no longer a ghost but a thread we’re weaving, together.

Chapter 21: Threads Woven

Wednesday, July 9, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

The doorbell chimes just past noon, a sharp note cutting through the quiet of the house, startling me as I stir soup for lunch in the kitchen. Lauren calls from the hall, “Package!” her voice carrying a lilt, knowing, and my stomach flips—the dresses, ordered Saturday, here now, the moment we’ve been waiting for. Amanda’s a hum, bright and eager, buzzing in my chest, her presence a warm spark. It’s time, she says, soft but insistent, and I set the spoon down, my hands shaky, wiping them on a towel as I join her, my heart pounding. Lauren’s at the door, brown box in hand, grinning small but real, her hazel eyes catching mine, a mix of excitement and nervousness in them. “Guess Amanda’s stuff’s here,” she says, teasing, her voice light but her hands gripping the box a little too tight, a sign she’s feeling the weight of this moment too.

We carry it to the living room, set it on the coffee table, and she hands me a pair of scissors, stepping back, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, watching me closely. “Your move,” she says, soft, her tone encouraging, though I see a flicker of uncertainty in her, the way her hands clasp in front of her, her knuckles pale. I slice the tape, slow, deliberate, my hands trembling, and peel back the flaps—three dresses, folded neat in plastic: light blue with leaves, pink with stripes, pale green with buttons. Amanda’s loud, thrilled, her voice a warm flood. Ours, she says, and I lift the blue one first, the fabric cool and flowy, holding it up, the light catching the faint leaf pattern. Lauren tilts her head, appraising, her expression softening, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Pretty,” she murmurs, her voice warm, and I feel it—her seeing, us sharing, no walls, her willingness to be here, to see Amanda, a quiet gift.

“You said you’d try one,” she adds, gentle but firm, sitting on the couch, her hands clasped in her lap, her posture a mix of anticipation and nervousness, her eyes searching mine. My pulse spikes, Amanda warm, urging, her voice a quiet push. Now. “Yeah,” I rasp, clutching the blue dress, my throat tight, “I did.” I glance at her—safe, here, asking—and nod, slow, my voice trembling. “Okay. Give me a sec.” I head to the bedroom, door half-open, and change—jeans off, T-shirt off, the dress slipping over my head, light against my skin, the fabric cool and soft. No tights, no shoes—just this, simple, real. Amanda’s alive, humming, her presence a warm flood. Look at us. I smooth the hem, my knees shaky, and step back out, barefoot, my heart hammering, the dress brushing my legs as I move.

Lauren’s there, her eyes widening as I stand in the doorway, the soft blue catching the light, her breath catching audibly, her hands stilling in her lap. “That’s… her,” she says, soft, a breath escaping, her voice trembling slightly, a mix of awe and uncertainty in her tone. I nod, my hands awkward at my sides, feeling the weight of her gaze, my voice trembling. “Yeah. Amanda.” I’m not hiding—not from her, not here. She stands, slow, crossing to me, her movements deliberate, her bare feet silent on the hardwood, and I see her eyes flicker—over the dress, my shoulders, my face, like she’s looking for me, for Connor, in this new shape, her hands unclasping, one reaching out to touch the fabric, light, her fingers trembling just enough for me to notice.

“You’re… different,” she says, quiet, a tear slipping down her cheek, her voice cracking slightly, “still you, but… her too. Softer.” Her hand moves from the fabric to my arm, steady now, her touch grounding me, and I see the effort in her, the way her brow furrows, like she’s piecing together 24 years of me with this moment, her eyes wet but searching. Amanda’s warm, a flood, and I choke a laugh, raw, tears pricking my own eyes. “That’s her. Free, like I said.” She steps back, wiping her face with the back of her hand, and smiles—shaky, real, her eyes bright despite the tears, her voice thick. “Hi again, Amanda,” she says, testing the name, her tone deliberate, like she’s meeting someone important, and I feel it—relief, love, a stitch pulling tighter, her willingness to greet Amanda, to see her, a quiet act of acceptance.

“Hi,” I whisper back, for us both, my throat tight, and she nods, sitting again, patting the couch beside her, her posture relaxing slightly, her hands resting in her lap now. “Come here,” she says, soft, her voice warm, inviting, and I do, the dress swishing as I sit beside her, close, her warmth grounding me, the motion still foreign but less terrifying with her here. “It’s weird,” she admits, laughing small, her tone a mix of wonder and honesty, “but… good weird. I like her—you.” Her eyes meet mine, a warmth in them, a quiet resolve, and I see the effort in her, the way she’s holding space for this, for me, even as it challenges her. My chest unclenches, and Amanda’s solid, happy, her presence a warm thread. Us.

We sit there, the soup forgotten in the kitchen, the box open beside us, and she asks, tentative, her voice softer now, more reflective, “What’s it feel like? Wearing it, with me here?” Her eyes search mine, a genuine curiosity in them, a desire to understand, and I pause, Amanda humming, her voice a quiet guide. “Right,” I say, raw, my voice trembling. “Scary, but right. Not sneaking—being. With you.” She squeezes my hand, firm, her thumb brushing my knuckles, her voice thick with emotion. “Good,” she murmurs, her tone warm, encouraging. “Keep being.” I see the effort in her, the way her eyes are wet, the way her smile trembles, like she’s both overwhelmed and determined to be here, to see me, to see Amanda.

The afternoon unfolds—quiet, new, her grading papers later while I stay in the dress, testing it, living it, no rush to change, her small glances across the room, her murmured “Looks nice” as she passes by, a quiet affirmation that settles in my chest. It’s small, this step, but it’s ours—threads woven, Amanda real between us, steady and growing, her willingness to be part of this, to see me, a cornerstone in the space we’re building.

Chapter 22: Steady Ground

Saturday, July 12, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

The house feels softer, mid-morning light spilling through the windows, warming the living room where I sit with a book I’m not reading, the pages untouched for the past half hour. It’s three days since the dresses arrived, since I stood in that blue one for Lauren, her hand on my arm, Hi again, Amanda, her quiet acceptance a moment I keep replaying. We’ve kept it quiet since—me in the pink dress Thursday night, her watching TV beside me, a murmured “Looks nice” that stuck with me, her small smile across the couch a sign she’s still here, still trying. Amanda’s a hum, warm and settled, not pushing, just here, her presence a steady comfort. We’re home, she says, soft, and I feel it—less fear, more space, a rhythm we’re finding, just us.

Lauren’s in the kitchen, humming over the clatter of dishes, prepping for a lazy day—pancakes again, her weekend ritual, the smell of batter and syrup drifting through the house. I’m in jeans now, but the green dress is folded upstairs, waiting, a choice I don’t dread anymore, a small freedom I’m starting to claim. She pokes her head out, apron dusted with flour, and grins, her hazel eyes catching mine, a warmth in them that makes my chest ache. “You gonna help, or just sit there looking pretty?” she teases, her tone light, playful, but there’s a softness in her gaze, a quiet acknowledgment of Amanda, of me, that settles in my bones. I laugh, raw but easy, setting the book down, my voice low. “Coming,” I say, joining her, grabbing a spatula, Amanda warm, content, her presence a quiet hum. She’s good with us.

We work side by side, batter sizzling, and it’s normal—almost too normal, like Amanda’s always been here, a thread woven into our mornings, our quiet moments. “Been thinking,” Lauren says, flipping a pancake, her voice casual but deliberate, her eyes flickering to me, a small smile tugging at her lips, “about her—you. It’s… nice, seeing you like that. Relaxed.” Her words catch me off guard, and I pause, spatula mid-air, Amanda humming, pleased, her presence a warm spark. “Yeah?” I say, soft, my voice trembling slightly, and she nods, her smile growing, her eyes warm, though I see a flicker of uncertainty in them, the way her hands grip the spatula a little tighter, like she’s still adjusting to this new normal. “Yeah,” she says, her voice steady now, “you’re lighter. Not drinking, not shut down. I like it.” Her tone is warm, genuine, and I see the effort in her, the way she’s embracing this, even as it challenges her, her willingness to see me, to see Amanda, a quiet gift.

My chest unclenches, and I smile, small, my voice raw. “Good. Me too.” The doorbell cuts through, sharp and sudden, and we freeze—pancakes hissing, my pulse jumping, Amanda stirring, cautious, her voice a quiet warning. Stay calm. “Who’s that?” I mutter, my voice low, and Lauren shrugs, wiping her hands on her apron, her expression shifting to mild annoyance, a familiar reaction to unexpected visitors. “Probably Judy—said she might drop off that casserole dish,” she says, her tone casual, but I see the flicker of concern in her eyes, like she’s thinking the same thing I am—dresses upstairs, Amanda real now, what if—

Judy’s voice floods in as Lauren opens the door, bright and loud, her presence a whirlwind as always. “Lauren! Brought the dish—oh, and some cookies, fresh-baked!” She’s in the doorway, gray hair bouncing, arms full, and Lauren takes the load, smiling, her movements calm but quick, like she’s trying to keep this brief. “Thanks, Judy. Come in?” she offers, her tone polite but clipped, and I tense, hovering in the hall, jeans and T-shirt safe but my mind racing—dresses upstairs, Amanda real now, what if she sees something, what if she knows? Judy waves it off, her voice cheerful. “Just a sec—gotta run. Hey, Connor!” She spots me, grins, her eyes flicking over me—nothing to see, just me—and I nod, stiff, my voice tight. “Hey.”

She’s gone as quick as she came, back to her car, oblivious, and Lauren closes the door, turning to me, her expression softening as she catches my look, the tension in my shoulders, the way my hands are clenched at my sides. “You okay?” she asks, soft, balancing the dish and cookies, her eyes searching mine, a quiet concern in them. “Yeah,” I say, exhaling, Amanda steadying, her presence a quiet anchor. Close. “Just… jumped. Thought—” I trail off, and she nods, knowing, setting the stuff down on the hall table, stepping close, her hand brushing my arm, warm, grounding. “She didn’t see anything. You’re fine. We’re fine,” she says, her voice steady, reassuring, though I see a flicker of amusement in her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Next time, wear the dress for Judy. Really give her something to talk about,” she teases, her tone light, playful, and I laugh, real this time, the tension easing, Amanda delighted, her presence a warm thread weaving us tighter.

We head back to the kitchen, pancakes waiting, and she bumps my shoulder, her touch a quiet reassurance, her smile warm. “You worry too much,” she murmurs, her voice soft, and I nod, my throat tight, grateful for her ease, her willingness to keep this light, to keep us steady. The day rolls on—pancakes eaten, a walk in the yard, her hand in mine, the summer air warm around us—and I feel it: steady ground, Amanda not a secret but a part, growing with us, safe for now in these walls, Lauren’s quiet support a cornerstone in this life we’re building, just us.

Chapter 23: A New Rhythm

Tuesday, July 15, 2025, Charlotte, North Carolina.

We’re back in Dr. Hart’s office, pulling into the lot at 11:57 a.m., Lauren’s hand resting light on my knee as I cut the engine, her touch a quiet anchor, a sign she’s still here, still with me. It’s been ten days since I first wore that blue dress for her, a week since Judy’s drop-by rattled me, and we’ve settled into something—quiet, real, Amanda woven into our days. The pink dress last night, me reading on the couch, her grading papers beside me, a murmured “Nice color” from her, her small smile across the room—it’s small, but it’s us, a rhythm we’re finding. Now we’re here, together again, to unpack it with Dr. Hart, her presence a steady guide in this journey. Amanda’s a hum, warm and calm, her voice soft. We’re good, she says, and I feel it—steady, but still new, Lauren’s willingness to keep going a quiet strength I lean on.

We walk in, Lauren’s arm brushing mine, and the waiting room’s the same—clock ticking, beige walls—but it’s lighter with her here, a shared anchor, her presence a steady warmth. Dr. Hart opens her door at noon, smiles wide at us both, her calm a lifeline. “Good to see you,” she says, ushering us in, her voice warm, encouraging. I take the armchair, Lauren the couch, her hands clasped, her posture relaxed now, a sign she’s more at ease than she was in our first session together, and Dr. Hart sits, notepad ready, glasses perched. “You’re glowing a bit,” she says, her tone warm, her eyes flickering between us, a small smile tugging at her lips. “What’s been happening?”

I glance at Lauren, her nod encouraging, her eyes meeting mine with a quiet warmth, and I start, my voice steady, stronger than it’s been in weeks. “Dresses came,” I say, soft, the words carrying a weight I’m starting to embrace. “Wore one—blue—for her. Then pink, green. At home. She’s… here now, with us.” Amanda’s warm, alive, her presence a steady thread, and Dr. Hart’s pen pauses, her eyes sharp, a small smile breaking through. “That’s big, Connor. Showing her—how’s it feel?” I rub my hands, grounding myself, my voice raw but steady. “Good,” I say, the memory of Lauren’s gaze still vivid. “Scary at first—still is, sometimes—but good. Not hiding. She sees me—her—and it’s… easier.” Lauren nods, her smile breaking through, her hands unclasping, resting in her lap now, a sign she’s more at ease, her eyes warm as they meet mine.

Dr. Hart turns to Lauren, her voice gentle. “Lauren, you’re adapting. What’s that like for you?” Lauren shifts, exhaling, her expression thoughtful, her voice soft but steady. “Strange, still,” she admits, honest, a small laugh breaking through, her tone warm. “But… nice. He’s lighter—not drinking, not shut down. I see Amanda in him—quiet moments, the way he moves sometimes, the way he smiles when he’s… her.” Her eyes meet mine, a warmth in them, a quiet acceptance, though I see a flicker of uncertainty, the way her brow furrows slightly, like she’s still adjusting to this new rhythm. “I’m getting it,” she adds, her voice thick with emotion, her hands stilling, “and I like it—her being part of us. It’s new, but it fits.” Amanda hums, content, her presence a warm flood. She’s ours.

Dr. Hart nods, turning to me, her gaze sharp but kind. “And you, Connor? What’s shifting?” I rub my hands, grounding myself, my voice low, steady. “Less fear,” I say, the words feeling true, real. “She’s not a secret—here, home. With Lauren, it’s real. Still figuring out how much, but… I’m not fighting her.” Dr. Hart smiles, small, her eyes warm. “You’re integrating. Both of you. What’s next?” Lauren jumps in, tentative, her voice soft, her eyes flickering to me, a mix of hope and uncertainty in them. “More, maybe,” she says, her hands tapping her knee lightly, a nervous habit I know well. “Not big—just keeping her around. Normal stuff—dresses, maybe… out, someday?” Her voice wavers on the last word, and I see the fear in her, the way her shoulders tense slightly, like she’s picturing a future she’s not sure she’s ready for, but her willingness to try, to keep going, hits me hard.

My pulse jumps—out, public—but Amanda’s steady, warm, her voice a quiet guide. Maybe. “Yeah,” I echo, shaky, my voice trembling slightly. “Slow. Home’s good for now, but… yeah, maybe.” Dr. Hart leans in, her voice steady. “That’s a solid pace. Home’s your foundation—build there, then see. Lauren, what do you need from him?” Lauren squeezes my hand, firm, her grip warm, grounding, her eyes locking on mine, a quiet resolve in them. “This,” she says, soft, her voice thick with emotion. “Openness. Him—her—here with me.” Her words land heavy, a reminder of the trust we’re building, the space she’s holding for me, for Amanda, and I nod, fierce, my throat tight. “You’ve got it,” I say, raw, and Amanda’s solid, a promise. We do.

Dr. Hart sets the notepad down, her eyes warm, a small smile on her lips. “You’re a team—Connor, Amanda, Lauren. It’s not perfect, but it’s yours. Keep talking, keep showing. You’re doing the work.” The session ends, Lauren’s hand in mine, and Dr. Hart says, “Next week?” her tone encouraging. We nod, rising together—stronger, steadier, Amanda no longer a fracture but a thread binding us, Lauren’s willingness to keep going, to see me, a quiet strength I lean on. Outside, Lauren leans into me, her arm brushing mine, her voice soft. “We’re getting there,” she murmurs, her tone a mix of wonder and determination, her hazel eyes bright. I nod, Amanda warm between us, my voice raw. “Yeah. We are.”

Chapter 24: Woven Whole

Tuesday, July 15, 2027, Charlotte, North Carolina.

The Charlotte evening settles soft around us, the living room bathed in the warm glow of a single lamp, its light catching the edges of the silk scarf draped over the armchair—blue, a quiet marker of Amanda, not hidden anymore but simply here, a part of our home. I’m 48 now, gray threading through my hair, sitting on the couch with a glass of iced tea, the condensation cool against my palm, a quiet comfort. I’m lighter these days, the weight of 40 years finally lifted, and tonight I’m in a knee-length denim skirt, a loose white blouse fluttering as I shift, bare feet tucked under me on the cushion, the motion natural now, unforced. Amanda’s no hum anymore—she’s me, steady, woven into every breath, not a secret but a life, a rhythm Lauren and I have built over two years since that shaky confession in June 2025.

Lauren’s in the kitchen, the clink of dishes a familiar melody as she finishes washing up from dinner—just the two of us tonight, a simple meal of grilled chicken and salad, eaten at the table with the windows open, the summer breeze carrying the scent of jasmine from the backyard, her laughter earlier a bright note as I teased her about her new summer class syllabus. She’s 47, still fierce, still my storm, her silver-streaked hair tied back, her presence a steady anchor in my life. I hear her footsteps now, soft on the hardwood, and she appears in the doorway, drying her hands on a dish towel, her hazel eyes catching mine with a warmth that still makes my chest ache after 26 years, a quiet love that’s carried us through every storm.

“Looking good, Amanda,” she says, her voice teasing but warm, a smile tugging at her lips as she takes in the skirt, the blouse, the way I’m sitting—comfortable, unapologetic, me. I laugh, soft, the sound easier now, no tremble like there was back in ’25, back when I first wore that navy dress for her, when I was raw and terrified in Dr. Hart’s office, waiting for her to run, her quiet Hi, Amanda a moment that changed everything. “Thanks,” I say, my voice steady, and I feel it—us, a rhythm built on talks, tears, and time, a space where Amanda isn’t a shadow but a light, shared between us, Lauren’s acceptance a quiet strength I’ve come to rely on.

She crosses the room, tossing the towel over the armchair, and sits beside me, her warmth settling close, her hand finding mine, fingers lacing through with a quiet certainty, her touch a familiar anchor. “Dishes are done,” she says, her tone light, but her eyes are searching, always searching, like she’s checking for cracks, making sure I’m still here, still whole, a habit she’s kept since those early days, her love a steady thread through every moment. I squeeze her hand, grounding us both, and nod, my voice soft. “Good. More time for this, then.” She laughs, soft, leaning her head on my shoulder, her hair brushing my cheek, and I feel it—love, unyielding, the cornerstone of everything we’ve built, her presence a quiet promise that we’re in this together.

Inside, the house tells our story—three dresses hang in our closet now, mine, not borrowed, picked with Lauren over coffee some mornings, her teasing me about colors, Green suits you, her laughter bright as we chose them together, a ritual that’s become ours. A pair of flats sits by the door, simple, black, bought on a whim last month when we’d wandered into a shop downtown, her hand in mine, no stares we cared about, her quiet “Those would look nice with the green one,” a small act of love I hold close. Last week, I wore the green dress to a quiet dinner as we celebrated our anniversary at home, Lauren’s smile across the table brighter than the candlelight, her fingers brushing mine over the tablecloth, her murmured “You look happy” a moment I’ll carry forever. It’s not always and it’s not public—work’s still slacks, Connor’s world, the senior project manager—but home’s ours, fluid, free, a sacred space where Amanda lives, not hidden, just here, Lauren’s acceptance a quiet cornerstone in this life we’ve built.

Judy, the neighbor, saw me once last month, in the skirt, and just waved, her gossip long fizzled in the face of our quiet normalcy, Lauren’s teasing “Told you she’d get over it” a moment of shared laughter that settled in my chest. Lauren and I have carved this out, just us, a life where Amanda isn’t a secret to be whispered but a truth to be lived, at least in these walls, her presence a quiet thread in our days. I think of the box I burned years ago—dresses, sketches, shame turned to ash—and I feel it: freedom, hard-won, steady now, a freedom Lauren helped me find, her love a steady guide through every step. Therapy with Dr. Hart helped, her steady voice guiding us through the mess, but Lauren’s love, patient and fierce, set the cornerstone, brick by brick, until we stood on steady ground, her quiet We’ll figure this out a promise she’s kept.

Lauren lifts her head, her eyes meeting mine, and I see the question in them before she speaks, her expression soft, vulnerable, a quiet need in her gaze. “Happy?” she asks, her voice soft, raw, like she needs to hear it, needs to know this life we’ve built is enough, her hand tightening on mine, her thumb brushing my knuckles. I look at her—hazel eyes, steady love, the storm I’ve always known—and nod, my throat tight, Amanda warm, content, woven into this moment, her presence a quiet hum. “Yeah,” I say, raw, my hand tightening on hers, my voice trembling with the weight of it. “You?” She smiles, small but real, her fingers brushing my cheek, her touch a promise, her eyes bright with tears, her voice thick. “Yeah,” she murmurs, and I feel it—us, whole, a tapestry of Connor and Amanda and Lauren, threads woven tight, not perfect but ours, her love a steady thread through every moment.

We sit there, the night deepening outside, the lamp casting soft shadows, and I know it: this is our normal, two years carved from that first confession, a life where I’m not hiding, where Amanda’s not a shadow but a light, shared in this sacred space we’ve built, just us. Lauren leans into me, her warmth steady, her head resting on my shoulder again, her voice a soft murmur. “I’m proud of you, you know,” she says, her tone thick with emotion, her hand squeezing mine, and I feel the weight of her words, the way they settle in my chest, a quiet affirmation of everything we’ve built. I close my eyes, Amanda’s presence a quiet hum, not separate anymore but whole, woven into every breath, every touch, every moment of this life we’ve made together, Lauren’s love the cornerstone that holds it all together.

Chapter 25: Reflection

Two years ago, in July ’25, I was 46, trapped in a fortress of my own making, each brick laid with bourbon and denial, Amanda a scream rattling the mortar I couldn’t silence. For 40 years, I’d stacked them high—small-town lessons, church hymns, Dad’s heavy Be a man—building a life in Charlotte’s quiet suburbs that looked solid: husband, project manager, a structure to keep Lauren safe and Amanda caged. That first crack—Her name’s Amanda—split the foundation, raw and terrifying, spilling out to Dr. Hart, then Lauren, and I ran, drank, tried to patch it, but she broke through, and they held steady—Lauren’s fierce I’m here, Dr. Hart’s calm Let her live.

From that shaky summer, trembling in a navy dress before my wife, Lauren’s quiet Hi, Amanda a moment of raw acceptance, to this—July ’27, 48 now, sitting on our couch in a denim skirt, the living room warm with Lauren’s presence—it’s been a rebuilding, brick by brick. No wrecking ball, no grand collapse—just slow chiseling: therapy sessions carving space, Lauren’s hand laying new stones, her love shaping a home where Amanda isn’t a shadow but a light, her quiet I want to see her a promise that started it all. I’m still Connor, the frame I’ve always been, but Amanda’s the mortar now, soft and free, binding us—not a flaw to hide but a strength woven in, a truth we live in these walls, just us, Lauren’s acceptance a quiet cornerstone in this life we’ve built.

No more boxes, no more bottles—the walls I raise now are ours, open and steady, a sacred space for me, for her, for us, a space Lauren helped me carve out, her love a steady guide through every step. Lauren’s love, patient and unyielding, set the cornerstone; those hours with Dr. Hart mortared the gaps, her steady voice a lifeline through the mess. It’s not loud—no banners, no fanfare—just a life, brick by brick, mine at last, a life Lauren’s shaped with me, her quiet We’re doing this a promise she’s kept. Looking back, I’d tell that scared boy in a pink dress with white polka dots, sneaking through shadows: You’re enough. At 48, sitting here—Lauren’s hand holding mine, Connor’s and Amanda’s, our home humming, this peace solid—I know it, every layer proven, Lauren’s love the thread that holds it all together.