Too Late To Love Me I Already Left With His Twins (Lydia and Dave) novel Chapter 43

Lydia POV

“Would you like water?” she asked as I sat down.

“Yes, please.”

She handed me a glass and smiled toward the stroller beside me.

“They’re beautiful.”

I looked down automatically.

Eli was asleep with his mouth open, Ava was staring at the ceiling like she was auditing it for structural weaknesses.

I smiled despite myself.

“They know they’re gorgeous. Very arrogant babies.”

Dr. Sana laughed.

“How long ago did you have them?”

“Six weeks.”

Her brows rose. “And you’re here already?”

“I figured if I waited until I was fully falling apart, I might never come.”

Something in her expression softened.

“That’s smart.”

I shrugged.

“Or dramatic.”

“No,” she said gently. “Smart.”

She settled into her chair.

“For context,” she said, “when I had my first child, I cried because I dropped toast on the floor and genuinely believed my life was over.”

I blinked.

She smiled.

“My point is: motherhood can be overwhelming even with support. Doing it alone is another category entirely.”

The words hit harder than I expected.

Because she had said alone so casually.

Like it was fact.

Like she could see it on me.

And suddenly my throat tightened.

She asked me why I came.

I gave the polished answer first.

“I’ve been afixious. Overwhelmed. Not sleeping enought.”

She nodded.

“And beneath the polished answer?”

I stared at her.

Then laughed once.

Sharp.

Annoyed.

“You therapists are irritatingly efficient.”

She smiled.

“I’ve been told.”

I looked down at my hands.

Then said quietly-

“I think I’m breaking in ways no one can see.”

The room went still.

And once I said that

Everything started coming out.

Just in pieces.

The marriage.

The loneliness.

The pregnancy.

The way I left.

The babies.

The fear.

The exhaustion.

And finally-

“What did he say when you told him?” she asked softly.

I swallowed.

My fingers tightened around the paper cup.

“He said we’d handle it.”

She waited.

That was all.

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[H 300-

Just waited.

And somehow that made it worse.

Tears burned behind my eyes.

“Like my child was a problem to be managed,” I whispered.

The room blurred.

“He looked at me like I had done something disgusting.”

Silence.

Then Dr. Sana asked 1

“Why do you think that hurt you so much?”

I laughed bitterly.

“Because it was cruel?”

She tilted her head.

“No. Cruel is many things. But some cruelties scar deeper because they confirm something you already feared.”

That landed somewhere ugly inside me.

And I had no answer.

By the second session, she had learned I cope with humor.

Unfortunately for me, she was immune to it.

“Tell me about before your husband,” she said.

I froze.

“There is no before my husband worth discussing.”

“That response tells me there is.”

I hated her a little for that.

So I told her.

Not everything.

Just enough.

Enough to explain what it felt like to grow up unwanted.

To learn very young that love was conditional.

“To be honest,” I said, staring at the rug, “being someone’s last choice stopped feeling unusual after a while.”

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My throat closed.

I looked away.

Because the answer was:

Long enough that I stopped noticing the cost.

By the third session, she asked about the note.

“You said you didn’t cry writing it.”

“No”

My eyes filled immediately.

Because I knew.

I knew.

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I had been grieving my marriage almost from the moment it began.

Grieving the idea of being loved while sleeping beside proof that I wasn’t.