When my father invited me to join him for a therapy session,
I expected combat.
The image that came to mind was an idealized me with a quarterstaff
defending against two attackers: my father and the therapist.
I wasn’t sure what the attacks would consist of, so I tried to come prepared.
I had a series of grievances listed and ready to go
so whatever my Dad had to say, I could counter it.

What occurred instead was a warm greeting from Dr. X,
who asked me if I had anything to say.
I did.
“I always felt my father was distant.”
They looked at each other and nodded, sadly.
“Dad left my house because he wanted to sleep late, which, as a child,
felt like an attack. I didn’t have the restraint for him to stay.”
Dad absorbed that, too.
And it went on. The things I was prepared to use as self-defense
were instead an opening salvo which, afterward,
my father apologized for,
with Dr. X chiming in.

It seemed like that was more of the purpose of the session:
closure for my father, to be able to speak honestly about issues with me
that perhaps we hadn’t been able to discuss without intermediaries.

I hadn’t been in therapy for a while at the time.
I was unprepared for its power.

I didn’t feel bad at the end of the session,
though it certainly felt incomplete.
We didn’t repeat the exercise, though.
I’m not sure what Dad got out of it,
if he was satisfied, or if it was emotionally difficult,
or what.

We did not discuss afterward.

By the time I started my own therapy,
we did not reverse the process.

It is too late now.