I had my hands on my head as I anxiously paced back and forth in the waiting room. Despite having taken my meds this morning, I felt as though I was a labored breath away from having a panic attack.

It's been thirty minutes and Declan still has yet to come out of his therapy session. I wasn't too eager to bring him here in this first place, because I'm afraid they'll find some way to criticize my parenting.

I've been trying my best to give Declan a life as equally great and fulfilling as a child with two parents. I've read all the parenting books and even joined a few groups when he was first born.

I've done everything a father can to give their child the affection and care they need to grow up strong and healthy.

Maybe avoiding conversations pertaining to his mother wasn't the best choice. And he might be dealing with some emotions I didn't know he was dealing with as a result. But at the time, not telling him about his mother was me trying to do what I felt was best for him.

"Mr. Isaacs?"

I stopped pacing, removing the fingernails I had been excessively chewing down to the nub.

Doctor Riley stood before me with a notebook in hand, the vintage brown suit he was wearing fitted tightly on his short, round body, the buttons hanging on by a single thread.

He had his thin graying hair combed over to hide the bald spot in the middle of his head, which wasn't very well hidden. And he had these large bifocal glasses that made his eyes look like they were popping out of the socket.

"If you would follow me please," he said in a monotonous tone, making it difficult for me to decipher the outcome of Declan's session.

I tried to sneak a look at his notebook, but he caught me peeking over his shoulder and quickly closed it, giving me a tight-lipped smile.

Stopping in front of a door, he pushed the handle down and opened the door. Declan was playing with colorful blocks, the room decorated in a way that would give a child the impression that they are stepping into Toyland heaven.

A woman sat with him, watching him stack the blocks as high as he could before knocking them down and repeating the process.

I thought he was going to tell me that the session was over and that I could take Declan and go. But he motioned me to follow him into another room with two chairs facing a single one.

I took a seat in one of the chairs, Doctor Riley sitting down in the single chair across me. He crossed his legs, adjusting his bifocals and staring at me expectantly.

"Aren't you going to ask me a question?" I asked.

"Why don't you go ahead and ask me the burning question on your mind instead?"

I zeroed in on the ballpoint pen in his hand, the single click of his pen making me nervous all over again. I hate Therapists. I despise them just as much as Doctors and hospitals.

But Everett thinks going to therapy will help free Declan and I of our psychological issues known and unknown. So because I trust him, I'm willing to push my hatred of this insufferable place aside and give it a try.

"How did Declan's therapy session go?" I blurted out.

"Very well. He's a bright young boy."

"So... why am I still here then? If he's fine then-"

"I didn't say that, Mr. Isaacs."

My heart started thumping in my chest as I watched him open his notebook and pull out a few of Declan's drawings.

He spread them neatly onto the little square shaped harwood coffee table, confusion written all over my face as I stared down at them. "Why are you showing me this? I've seen all of these already."

"We had him draw a new picture. Looking at the three drawings can you tell me what's changed between the first two and his most recent drawing?"

I blinked, trying to figure out what was different in his usual family drawings. "He drew a dog."

"Yes, but that's not the answer I'm looking for. Look a little closer, Mr. Isaacs."

Squinting my eyes, I focused on the faces, preferably Declan's. In the first drawing, the one where Natalie is crossed out, he's drawn a sad face.

And in the second, he's drawn a picture with just me and him. I'm expecting to see a happy face, but instead he's drawn another sad face.

I was heartbroken, because it meant that he was unhappy. I've never seen him without a smile on his face, which means he's only been pretending so he wouldn't hurt my feelings.

I blinked away the tears forming in my eyes, paranoid thoughts about me failing him as a father crossing my mind.

Anxiously bouncing my knee, I slowly brought my gaze over to the third picture. I was expecting to see the worst. To see the same sad look on Declan's face as shown in the last two.

But to my surprise, he's smiling. And I immediately saw why when my eyes focused in on the third person he drew beside us. He had drawn Laurel into the picture, all of us holding hands and looking like a happy family.

That shit hurt. Because it made me realize how blind I've been to his wants and needs. He's been drawing these for weeks and I never thought anything of it.

"I'm a terrible father," I said, wiping at the stray tear that was rolling down my cheek. "I thought I was doing what was best for him, but it seems I was only doing what was best for me."

"You're not a terrible father, Mr. Isaacs. You've done more for Declan than most parents I've had sessions with."

"How do I fix this?"

"There's nothing to fix, Mr. Isaacs. Declan is happy."

"But for how long? Everybody leaves, Doc."

He pointed to the third picture, his finger hovering over Laurel in particular. "Not everybody."