"And then what happened?"

I grit my teeth, my fingers digging into the cushion of the single-seater almost painfully. I know I'm glaring at my psychiatrist but I can't find it in me to care.

"I told you. I'm done for the day." I swipe at the lingering tears on my face with a quick hand.

I feel exhausted. Drained. Reliving my worst nightmare over and over is somehow supposed to help me heal but in this moment I want nothing more than to sink to my knees and cease to exist. It's too much.

"You're not." She insists, folding her hands in her lap. Her calmness only angers me. "You always stop talking about the nightmare at this particular part—the part where you look at your surroundings after the crash. Why won't you talk about it? What do you always see? Are you afraid of it?"

"Please." My voice is small. "I'll tell you at our next session."

"You've been saying that the past two sessions. This has to go somewhere, Delilah."

"I don't want to talk about what I always see. It's not even what I actually saw that day. It's a figment of my imagination so what does it matter?"

"It matters enough that this part of your dreams paralyze you with fear. And it's exactly what you see at this part that has you screaming awake so I know, imagination or not, it's got to be bad."

"But it's not even real. It's just something messed up my brain is making me see."

"Define 'messed up.' Is it an object? A person?"

Leave me alone, I want to scream. Can't you see how hard this is?

I swallow against the bile in my throat when I recall the image that has kept me up at night for the past month and a half. Even thinking about it sends a cold shudder down my spine and the urge to cry takes over once again.

"It's horrible. You're going to think I'm crazy or something." My voice cracks and the tears breakaway. I try to wipe them away but they're falling faster than I can keep up with. I skip a hand over my mouth when I fail to contain a sob. God, I've have enough heartache to last a lifetime. When will it end?

"Who says it's crazy? Under what context can it even be considered crazy?" She leans forward in her seat and demands my undivided attention. "You've already predetermined what this dream says about you and now you're scared to expose it to me. How do you know for sure that what you saw in your dream is something negative to begin with? How do you know your personal demons haven't convinced you that what you saw is truly a bad thing instead of a natural response or something that actually makes sense given the level of trauma you faced?"

My crying takes a momentary pause at her words and I'm unable to do anything but blink. "Well, I...I..."

"You don't know that." She answers for me. "Not until you open up to me and I can help you figure it out. I know it seems like I'm torturing you because I'm pushing you well beyond your limit but you need to understand that your resilience is compromised, Delilah. You went through trauma and now you have a very narrow belief in what you can and can't handle. Your fear is causing you to believe you can't handle this. I have a much clearer lens and I won't push you past what I know you can handle. Today you are ready to tell me the next part of your dream. I would not be asking this of you if I wasn't one hundred percent sure."

"You really think I can do this?" I ask a little timidly.

"I do." She smiles, probably the first smile she's given me ever since we started our sessions, and I feel just a little less crappy. But I'm still hesitant to admit what she wants me to.

"Take your time." She encourages and settles in her seat. She's the epitome of patient and I know she'll wait as long as she needs to, even if we go over our scheduled time. She's stubborn like that and maybe that's why I feel the need to just get it over with since she won't let this go.

"Zack." I blurt. "I see Zack."

She scribbles in her notepad without taking her eyes off of me. "He's no longer inside you when you crash?"

I just shake my head.

"And how do imagine him?" She uses a finger to push her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Or rather, what does he look like in the dream?"

I shake my head again. Every part of me is screaming to not say a word.

"Is he hurt when you see him?" She asks quietly. I nod. She scribbles some more, still keeping her eyes locked on mine. "Are his injuries visible to you?"

Another nod accompanied by the sudden tightness in my throat. I hate thinking about this. I do everything I can to distract myself from seeing the image I know I'll only see when I go to sleep.

"Are the injuries serious? Serious enough to the point of...death?"

And I lose it.

A guttural sob tears out of me and I barely manage to nod before burying my head in my hands. I don't know if she even managed to catch my answer but I don't care. I curl into myself, my arms winding around my stomach where I know Zack is safe, and hold myself while I rock back and forth.

He's okay. I'm okay. We're okay.

I've repeated that mantra more times than I can count.

"It's alright." I feel a hand settle on my arm briefly. "We can stop now. You've done everything you can for the day."

I make some kind of a noise and my psychiatrist leans in, tilting her ear in my direction. "Could you repeat that for me?"

"No." I suck in a breath, or at least try to while my chest is heaving. "I...I want to tell you the rest."

"You don't have to, Delilah. I believe you've reached your limit for the day and that's fine."

"Please." I insist. "Now that it's out in the open I just want to tell you. I just want to tell someone."

"Are you sure?"

"Not really but it's worth a try."

"Alright." She says in a soft voice. "Whenever you're ready, then."

I sit up straight and pull in air, trying to ease my nerves and control my quivering breaths. You can do this, Del. You don't have to be alone.

"In the dreams, when the car crashes..." I squeeze my eyes shut so I don't have to look at her and force the words out. "I go into distress and somehow, somehow, end up in labour. And then I blink and Zack is there. I don't know what he's going to look like but in the dream I somehow do. And...even if I do envision him in my dream I doubt he's going to look anything like that when he's born."

"Anything like what?" The line of her brows creases.

I squeeze my eyes tighter. Am I really about to admit this? "He was mangled, Debra. I mean, I couldn't even see most of his face because of all the deep cuts and blood and I just...every damn time it feels so real and all I can think is I did that to my baby and every...every time I go to sleep I feel like I lose him. Every day for the past month and a half I have lost my son in the worst possible way and I can't stop it. I can't eat or sleep or think. I just mourn for my baby who's still well and alive. Do you realize what that does to mentally and emotionally? I feel like I'm going insane. I feel dangerous. I feel undeserving to be his mother."

Debra places her hand on mine, her eyes knowing. "I think you're afraid of what you see because it's your biggest fear."

"What is?"

"That you can't keep your baby safe. I mean you've had two close calls back to back and there's no way you can stop him from being premature so you feel like you're a threat to your child. Your imagination conjures up the worst of possibilities, all related to your inability to protect your child the way a mother should. That is your biggest fear."

"Yes." I blink. "That's exactly how I feel. How...how do I make it stop?"

She takes her reading glasses off and perches them on her head. "The way I see it, you talk about your fears of being an inept mother to your child while he's inside of you. All of your close calls have been with him in the womb and your physical inability to help him. You feel limited. Although we never know how you will heal or what direction your healing will take, I strongly believe that once Zack is born and you're able to care for him at a closeness you don't have now, you'll feel worlds better. I think you associate your being a danger to him to the fact that he's inside you and you can't protect him if you get hurt because by extension, he gets hurt. So once he's born, you'll feel mentally more at ease that you can care for him when he's his own person."

"That makes a lot of sense." I nod and just imagining being able to hold Zack and having him visible to me instills a peace I haven't felt in a long time. "This pregnancy hasn't been easy. Although I'm very excited to have my baby, I can't imagine doing this again anytime soon."

"And that's fine. That's what trauma does to the human brain. The idea of pregnancy to you will automatically be associated with your bad memories and you'll view it as a risk. Over time, I'm sure I can help you look at things in a different light but for now just focus on pulling through for your baby. I know this pregnancy hasn't been ideal but I also know you're ready to physically be a mom and therefore, Zack's birth should stabilize your constant fears."

"Thank you." I speak against the gravel in my throat. "I know I wasn't always a willing patient to you and half the time I thought you were trying to drive me insane but...this is the best I've felt in a long time."

"I'm very glad to hear it." She smiles. "I'd like to ask you about more thing before you leave while you're feeling optimistic about me."

That makes me laugh a little. "Okay?"

"How are you feeling about Nate?"

That gives me pause. I only mentioned him once and that was a few weeks ago when I'd snapped and told Debra how alone I was feeling and that I couldn't rely on anyone. I didn't even elaborate on who Nate was to me—he just came up in the list of names.

"Why do you ask?" I'm hesitant.

"You had this look on your face when you said his name. It was different, sort of tender. Even though you'd said his name in anger at the time it's clear that's the last thing you feel towards him. I thought I'd bring it up when you were feeling more stable, like now."

I inhale a shaky breath. Did I want to talk about Nate with my psychiatrist? Did I even know what to say? I stick with the technical truth.

"I feel...less anger. We, um, cleared the air a couple of weeks back and finally had a conversation. It's been okay since. We see each other around and always say hi or try and catch up. Nothing too major."

"I see." She makes quick note of something. "But that's not what I asked. How do you feel about him? Not your situation."

"I don't know." I bristle. She's making me feel vulnerable as hell. I feel like I'm in the middle of a gossip session and I've always hated those. I don't know why most people behave as if minding their own business is a difficult task. I always turn the other cheek and stick to myself. "He's my friend."

"You're still not answering the question."

"Because I don't know what to say." I feel restless and shift in my seat under her watchful stare. "I haven't exactly had the time or mental capacity to sort out my feelings for him. That's just not a priority for me right now."

"I understand that but humour me. Blurt out the first thing that comes to mind when you think of him. Don't hesitate or ponder—just say it."

It's hard to do that because of the fear that I might embarrass myself over what comes out of my mouth but I do it anyways because I know Debra isn't going to let this go. "Hero."

"Hero? That's interesting." She murmurs and jots I'd down. Meanwhile I'm gaping and totally dumbfounded at what I just said. Hero? What's that supposed to mean?

"I have no idea why I said that."

"Try and figure it out. Do you feel as if he's saved you or someone close to you? Do you see him as a helpful individual to society? Ponder it."

"Well...I mean..." I struggle to find the words. "He's always been able to draw me out of my shell and force me to live a little. He encourages me to take risks and appreciate the opportunity for adventure. He always puts other before himself, including me. Those are all pretty heroic qualities."

"And do you still see him as a heroic person? Even after he hasn't really been there for you?"

I think about that for a moment. "I think who he is at the root is definitely a hero. But even heroes have weak moments or times in their life when they can't handle always being there for others. I think they deserve to save themselves as much as they save those around them. So yes, I still see him as a hero."

"And have you come to depend on him? Do you think you could handle losing him?"

The thought alone makes my chest tighten. "Honestly? No. But I would figure it out. It's what I do with everyone that leaves."

"Do you think he'll leave?"

"If there's anything I've come to learn from my life's experiences it's that you can't be sure of anything. I never say never. That's just how the world works." I shrug.

"Alright." She says softly. "We'll pick this up at our next session. You did a really great job today, Delilah."

"Thank you." I blow out a breath, feeling beyond drained as I always do after a session. "I'll see you next week."

She gives me a small wave in parting and I leave the room on shaky legs. Man that was intense and I can't stop thinking about everything we just discussed. Will I really be okay when Zack is born? Will I ever get over the raging guilt every time I think about him? And how did I feel about Nate?

I meant it when I said it was far at the back of my mind. I just didn't think to worry about something like that when my child's life was—is—at stake but now that the worse of it has calmed down, I can't help but wonder. Where do we go from here? Is there even a future for us anymore? For all I know Nate has gotten over me. That small period of time we'd admitted our feelings and lived in this happy bubble seems like eons ago. I can't expect to just pick up where we left off, can I?

I smile at Greg when I get to the waiting room and he stands up from his seat. Mom wasn't able to pick me up today so Greg offered instead. I still have trouble driving myself places and won't do it unless absolutely necessary but Debra assured me that's fine and to take it slow.

"How was it?" Greg asks and engulfs me in one of his bear hugs. He's become a lot more affectionate with me since the accident and it feels good to know how much he cares. Sometimes he almost feels like a father figure but I try not to let myself carried away with the thought. I've been burned before.

"Exhausting." I answer honestly as I hug him back. I used to be way more hesitant a month back but he was never deterred. He hugs me every chance he gets and though it scares me that I'm getting closer to him, it also feels really great. That hole in my heart that formed when my biological father left is slowly filling up with every hug and kiss and soothing word that Greg gives me. It's terrifying. All I can think about is that he'll probably leave too and I was the childish and hopeful girl who let him in. Sometimes I hate living this way—hate the scars that my father left on me. It's during times like this that I realize they never healed.

"Want to grab something to eat?" He takes my purse from me and holds on to it. I've told him an endless amount of times that I can carry it and that it's flimsy weight but he refuses to listen.

"I could go for a meal." I rub my obnoxiously large stomach for emphasis. "Then again, I could always go for a meal."

"Good. You've got to keep yourself healthy, sweetheart." His scolding warms me all over. I can't even remember my own biological father ever worrying over me like this. I swallow back the emotion that's making my throat tight.

"Yeah." My voice could be considered a whisper. "Where do you want to eat?"

"I was thinking we could kill two birds with one stone. Catch a meal and see your mom."

I nod my agreement. Last week my mother secured a job as the official chef of North Street Grille. It's definitely an upgrade from the waitressing job she was doing at a local diner. The pay is fantastic and everyone seems to love her cooking and all the twists she's added to some of the restaurant's favourites.

I slide into the passenger seat when Greg opens the door for me and buckle myself in. I check and double-check to make sure it's in place. When Greg starts up the car, I grip the sides of my seat tightly and breathe steadily through my nose. My eyes fall shut when the car begins to move and I try to focus on anything except for what's happening right now. Every time the car breaks or goes over a speed bump, a cry gets caught in my throat and I press my lips tightly together so I don't freak out. God, I hope this gets easier.

When a large and warm hand settles on top of mine, I jerk in my seat from the unexpected contact. I glance over at Greg curiously who has his gaze focused on the road but with a little heat behind it. "Wouldn't let anything happen to ya, darlin'. You know that, right?"

Aw, crap. It's so hard to keep him at arm's length when he says things like that. The hole in my chest feels less emptier with those words alone. "I know." And it's the truth. I'm not sure when it happened but I would trust Greg with my life.

"Good." He grunts. He keeps his hand on mine during the entire drive and although my panic is still gripping me, it's almost bearable with his support.

When we get to the restaurant, he wastes no time coming over to my side to open the door for me before I've even unbuckled my seat belt. He holds a hand out to me and gingerly helps me out of the car. It's definitely getting tougher to squeeze through small places when I'm this large. I waddle the entire way to the entrance while Greg keeps one hand firmly on my back. It's such a protective gesture that tears unexpectedly gather in my eyes.

As we enter the restaurant, several heads swivel our way. I'm used to being gawked at with a belly this round but I pause when I realize most of the curious eyes are on Greg. Sometimes I forget that he was once extremely famous in the boxing industry, enough so that he could be considered a celebrity almost. You would never think that, though. He's so private and humble I can't imagine that he spent his youth in the spotlight. The women's eyes linger on him and travel down his body. It's weird to me but I can understand their appeal. Greg is extremely handsome and tall and age hasn't brought his bulk down in the least. Wide shoulders, huge biceps, and strong thighs are still his companions at fifty-four years old. I would definitely want my man to look like him at that age.

We find an empty table at the back and I sit down on one of the chairs. I normally love sitting in the booths but I'm too big for that now.

"Let me go find your mom. You're good here?"

"I'm fine, thank you."