I sat on the plush leather couch in the therapist's office, knees pressed tightly together, hands twisted in my lap. The room was designed to be calming: soft beige walls, abstract art in muted colors, a large potted plant in the corner, and dim lamps casting warm light. But nothing about this felt calm. My stepdad, Mark, sat on the other end of the couch, his broad frame taking up too much space, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight. He wore a button-down shirt that strained slightly across his shoulders, jeans that hugged his thighs, and he avoided looking at me directly.Doctor Harlan leaned back in his armchair across from us, notepad on his knee, pen tapping slowly. He was in his late forties, tall and lean, with salt-and-pepper hair and sharp blue eyes behind thin glasses. His voice was always smooth, authoritative, the kind that made you listen even when you didn't want to.We had been coming here for three weeks. Mom insisted after she caught Mark and me arguing again, screa
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