I sighed, knowing that my mom spends quite a bit of money on these therapy sessions. I might as well give it a shot. Inhaling deeply I manage to give her the fakest smile I’ve ever given, and take the birdhouse from her. She looked unsure, scribbled something in her notepad, stood up, and said that she wanted the birdhouse done by the next therapy session. She gave me a hug and told me the same thing she says after every session. “You really are progressing Maria.” I tried to give her another one of my fake smiles, as she led me out of the office into the waiting room where my mom sat skimming through a magazine. She looked up and smiled, as if everything was okay. As if these stupid therapy sessions would fix my panic attacks. Just another reason that made me feel a little pang of resentment towards her, even though she was just trying to help.
***
I waited as long as I could and tried to push the little house out of my thoughts, but, as usual, leisure time filled my weekend and the little nagging in