I don’t remember driving home from the hospital.
People keep telling me I must have, because my car was parked in the driveway and the engine was cold, but I have no memory of the trip. My brain seems to have clipped out an entire section of time like a corrupted video file.
What I do remember is sitting on my living room floor with my phone in my hand, staring at a text message that had been marked “Seen” six hours earlier.
Me:
He’s gone. They couldn’t save him. Please tell me what I’m supposed to do right now.
No reply.
That was the first night of my life as a mother without a child. And my therapist — the person I had trusted for almost four years — didn’t answer me. She didn’t call. She didn’t even send a “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
She vanished.
The Boy Who Fixed Broken Things
Evan was fifteen.
He had the kind of smile that made adults stop mid-sentence and soften their voices. The kind of kid teachers wrote comments about in yearbooks: “Never stops trying.” He fixed old radios he found at yard sales, cleaned abandoned bikes from the creek near our house, once stayed up until 3 a.m. rebuilding a neighbor’s broken laptop because he overheard the woman crying about not being able to afford a new one.
He wasn’t supposed to die. That sounds stupid — no one is supposed to — but Evan especially wasn’t. He drank too much milk, hated energy drinks, texted me whenever he walked home late.
The night he died he had been walking back from his friend’s house. One block from home. A truck ran the light. I learned later the driver was texting.
When the ER doctor said, “We did everything we could,” I laughed. Not because it was funny — because my brain rejected the sentence entirely. I told him he had the wrong room. That my son was at home waiting for dinner.
I didn’t cry until I got to the car.
Why I Needed Therapy in the First Place
I didn’t start therapy because of Evan.
I started because of Evan’s father.
We divorced when Evan was eight. His dad drank, disappeared for weeks, came back crying and apologetic, promising sobriety that never lasted. After one especially bad episode where he forgot to pick Evan up from school and I found my son sitting alone on the curb after dark, I realized I was becoming someone I didn’t recognize: angry, hyper-vigilant, exhausted all the time.
I found my therapist through my insurance portal. Her name was Marissa. She specialized in family trauma and addiction-affected households. She had soft eyes and a voice that always sounded like it was wrapped in blankets.
For almost four years, she was my anchor.
When Evan had nightmares, she helped me learn grounding techniques. When I couldn’t stop checking my phone to make sure my ex wasn’t drunk driving with him, she helped me breathe again.
She once told me, “If anything catastrophic ever happens, reach out immediately. Don’t hold it alone.”
So I did.
And she didn’t answer.
The Text That Changed Everything
I didn’t send just one message. I sent five.
Me (12:03 a.m.):
Evan was hit by a truck. He didn’t make it. I can’t breathe.
Me (12:19 a.m.):
Please. I don’t know what to do.
Me (1:02 a.m.):
Marissa, please answer me.
At 8:47 a.m., the read receipt appeared on the last message.
Still nothing.
I told myself maybe she was in a session. Maybe she was in surgery or on a plane or something impossible. I tried to be rational while my entire life had just collapsed.
At noon, I called her office line.
Straight to voicemail.
I left a message I don’t remember recording. I only know it existed because my phone says I called.
The Second Night Without My Son
People assume you’re surrounded after a child dies.
That everyone floods in with casseroles and hugs and supportive words.
But the truth is, death scares people away. It reminds them how fragile their lives are, so they give you space. Too much space.
I slept on Evan’s bedroom floor that night. His hoodie was still on the chair. His unfinished science project leaned against the wall.
I opened my therapy app and stared at Marissa’s profile picture. Smiling. Calm. Professional.
I typed a long message about how I kept hearing his door open in my head. How I was afraid to sleep because I didn’t want to wake up to another day where he wasn’t alive.
I deleted it before sending.
I didn’t want to seem dramatic.
The Email That Broke Me
On the third day, I finally got something.
An email from the clinic receptionist.
Hi, we regret to inform you that Marissa is no longer practicing with our facility. Your upcoming appointments have been canceled. Please contact our intake department if you would like to be placed with another provider.
No explanation. No condolences. No acknowledgment of the voicemail I had left sobbing into their system.
I refreshed my inbox like a maniac.
That was it.
Four years of trust, erased with a form email.
What I Didn’t Know Yet
It would take weeks before I learned the truth.
That Marissa hadn’t quit.
That she had blocked me.
That she was still practicing — just not with me.
But that comes later.
Right now, I was still a mother sitting on the floor of an empty bedroom, clutching a phone that had gone permanently silent.
And I had no idea how badly this story was about to unravel.
Part 2 coming soon…
