Two months in, the sessions began to feel less like triage and more like... architecture. We were no longer just stopping the bleeding; we were discussing load-bearing walls and sight lines.
In one session, Alisha posed a new question. "If your marriage was a place—a landscape, a building, a room—what would it be, right now?
Don't think about the past. Don't project the future. Right now, in this moment of its history." We sat with the question. Leo, ever the architect, reached for the colored pencils. I closed my eyes, trying to feel the shape of the space we occupied.
After ten minutes, Alisha prompted us. "Leo?"
He looked down at his sketch, uncharacteristically hesitant. “It's... a construction site," he began, his voice low. He turned the paper. He'd drawn a detailed, busy scene.
