The gym at Hood River Valley High School still bore the faint smell of scorched cinder and ash from the residents who’d sought shelter here during the late-summer wildfires. A table was set up near the entrance with a coffee urn, four pitchers of ice water, and two boxes of donuts. I poured some water into a paper cup and took a seat in the circle of chairs, which had been set up around the basketball key. This must be the gym where Jack practiced with his high school basketball team.

I counted six people already seated. Three more stood to the side of the refreshments table and two more women entered after I did. Including myself, that was a dozen people for fifteen chairs. I hoped the group leader didn’t make us wait too long to start the session. I arrived two minutes before the start of the meeting so I wouldn’t have to make small talk.

I took a seat next to a black gentleman who was busy doing something on his phone. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties. In fact, almost everyone here appeared to be in their thirties or forties. For some reason, I expected a grief group demographic to skew older. It was depressing to see so many people my age suffering the loss of someone they loved.

An Indian woman wearing a maroon cardigan and gray slacks stood behind the chair at the top of the key, grabbing the back for support. “Is everyone ready to begin?” she said, raising her eyebrows as she smiled at the group of three men chatting by the refreshments table.

They quickly joined the group and took a seat across from me. The oldest of them couldn’t be more than fifty years old. Sandy brown hair stuck out the edges of his red and white trucker hat as he crossed his arms and sat back in the plastic yellow chair.

I tried to keep my focus on the Indian woman, but I kept glancing around the group, searching for something I recognized: a clenched jaw, red-rimmed eyes, fidgety hands, incessant foot-tapping. They were all there. The same symptoms in varying degrees, with different faces, different stories.

“Thank you all for coming today. My name is Dr. Anika Jindal. You may call me Anika or Doctor or Dr. Jindal. Your choice,” she said, not taking a seat in her chair yet. “I will not make anyone sign in today, since I’ve found that the first session is more of a survey. Members usually decide if group therapy will work for them in the first session. Many will not find this medium agrees with their personality, and that is totally okay. Next week, we will start signing in. Does that sound okay?”

A soft murmur of agreement rolled through the circle and Jindal nodded decisively.

“Very good. Then, let’s begin,” she said, finally taking a seat in the chair. “First, I want to start off by telling you the purpose of the group, then we can start introductions.”

A woman with long black hair raised her hand. “Can I ask a question?”

“Yes, please, go ahead,” Jindal replied genially.

“Will this meeting always take place at eight p.m.? Because I have to put my kids to bed at 8:30 and my husband gets a little stressed out if he has to do it alone.”

Jindal smiled. “Yes, I’m afraid so. I’ve found that seven p.m. is often too early for most working people, so we only schedule group sessions for eight p.m. now. I’m very sorry if that conflicts with your schedule. Is there someone else who can help your husband in your absence?”

The woman sighed and shook her head. “No. My… My mom is gone. That’s why I’m here. I’m sorry. I can’t stay.”

She gathered her purse off the floor and rushed out of the gym before Dr. Jindal could speak another word. I drew in a deep breath and blinked back tears as my emotions swelled. Everyone here was hurting.

Dr. Jindal flashed me a sympathetic smile and continued. “Many of you are here because your relationships with others and with yourself have suffered because of grief. There are many personal characteristics that contribute to us developing healthy relationships. Many of those characteristics are often hindered by our upbringing and by experiencing the loss of someone we love.

“Some of us were encouraged not to cry when we were upset or to keep secrets or lie to the people we love in order not to hurt their feelings. Some of us fell into these behaviors only after you experienced the loss. The only way to reject the personal characteristics that create negative relationship dynamics is to nourish the positive characteristics, such as openness, honesty, vulnerability, and so on. That is what we are here to do.

“We are not here to admonish you for your past mistakes. We are here to support each other and applaud each other’s efforts.” She turned to me and smiled. “How about we start with three-minute introductions. Your name?”

I cleared my throat and sat up a bit straighter. “Laurel.”

“Good evening, Laurel. We’ll start with you tonight. If you feel comfortable, please tell us why you’re here and what you hope to learn in this support group.”

I nodded and glanced around at the attentive faces, then I focused on my hands as I spoke. “I’m Laurel. I… I’m here because my baby boy and my mother were… murdered about two years ago.” A gasp from someone across the room made me pause, but I didn’t look up to see who it was. “I’m here because I want to learn how to stop hurting the people I love… including myself.”

“Very good,” Dr. Jindal encouraged me. “Next.”

The black gentleman next to me in the green University of Oregon sweatshirt also cleared his throat before he spoke. “My name is Kevin. I’m here because my ten-year-old son was killed by a drunk driver six years ago and I just… I can’t stop being angry. My wife left me. My kids hate me. And the bastard only served three months in jail. He’s moved on with his life, but I’m… I’m stuck. I guess I’m here ’cause I’m tired of being so damn angry all the time.”

“Good job, Kevin,” Jindal praised him. “Next.”

As everyone introduced themselves, I began to see how I was not alone. We were all suffering. Many of us suffered in silence, while others admitted to being emotional hurricanes, much like Jack. What we all had in common was the shame. Even if it wasn’t mentioned, you could hear it in our words. We felt ashamed for surviving and for not being strong enough to forge onward as if nothing had happened.

I raised my hand after the last introduction and Jindal nodded at me. “I just want to say that I hear so much shame in all of our words. It breaks my heart for everyone here. I don’t think any of us deserve that.”

Jindal smiled. “Very observant. And you are correct. Survivor’s guilt is not really guilt. It’s a form of shame, and shame is insidious. It’s one of the most useless and destructive emotions. It stunts our emotional intelligence, keeping us from doing and being better. We are going to make sure no one here feels ashamed for moving on and enjoying a healthy, fulfilling existence without their loved one.”

Dr. Jindal continued the session by giving the floor to anyone who wanted to add more detail to their introduction. She closed by thanking us for a great first session and giving us something to “contemplate” before the next session in one week’s time.

“I want you to contemplate your emotional growth. Make a list of five ways you think you can grow emotionally. Can you be more vulnerable? Can you be less secretive? Can you be more generous with your time? Can you take more time for self-care? And so on. I suggest making the list on your phone or appointment book so you have it with you at the next session. I hope to see you all then.”

As I pushed up from the purple yoga mat and walked my hands forward until I was in a downward-facing dog position, I whispered to Drea out of the corner of my mouth. “Did Barry talk to Jack?”

Drea waited a moment before she whispered, “Yes, on Saturday.”

My muscles tensed and instantly began to get a cramp in my neck. “That was five days ago. Did he tell Jack the baby is his?”

“I think so.”

Our yoga instructor, Ginger, issued a calm shush in our direction. “Okay, now I want you to slowly make your way into an Uttanasana pose, or an intense forward-bending pose. Breathe in… and out. Hug the backs of your knees if you can. It’s okay if you can’t. Keep breathing… Now, we will rise slowly into Vrikshasana, or tree pose, rolling your back to release that tension, and slowly, steadily place the bottom of your right foot on the inside of your left calf. Breathe. Feel the stillness.”

“Why hasn’t he called me?” I whispered to Drea, earning me a stern look from Ginger.

I spent the rest of the class repeating the list of five ways I needed to grow emotionally in my head, to keep myself from obsessing over why Jack hadn’t called. But I kept stopping at number four on my list, stopped dead by panicked thoughts of Jack moving on. Jack and I getting divorced. Jack and I using mediators to hash out a custody agreement. Jack meeting someone new and getting remarried. Jack having children with another woman.

By the end of yoga class, my hands were trembling and my stomach burned with acidic dread. As we exited the yoga studio, a blast of chill November air and prickling raindrops smacked me in the face. I pulled on the hood of my jacket and headed straight for Drea’s black SUV, which was parked along the curb on Cascade Avenue. Yanking my seatbelt on, I didn’t attempt to continue the conversation I’d started during class. I was fairly certain that if Jack hadn’t called me by now, I didn’t want to know why.

I cut Drea off as she began to say something. “Can we get some lunch? I’m starving.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and opened up my Notes app to look at the list I’d made last night after my first group therapy session.

I shook my head as it dawned on me that every item on the list was something I had to stop doing. It was just a list of things to avoid, but I’d spent the last two years avoiding everything. I avoided Jack when he was obsessing over the murder case. I avoided reality by never speaking about my dead son. I avoided anything that shined light on the gaping wound in my heart.

I began editing my notes, furiously thumb-typing and mercilessly deleting. By the time we reached Drea’s house, I had a completely new list.

As Drea pulled into a parking space outside the coffeehouse, I grabbed her hand before she could get out of the car. “I’m sorry if I put you on the spot back there. I know Jack needs time to sort things out. It’s not you or Barry’s responsibility to piece my marriage back together. I’m sorry I got impatient with you.”

She smiled as she squeezed my hand. “Laurel, you’re going through a really shit time. You’re allowed to get a bit pissy once in a while. Just don’t make it a habit or I’ll throw you in the bloody river.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

We found an empty table and Drea made me sit down while she went to the counter to order our drinks. When she returned with my hot chai tea latte, I wrapped my hands around the mug to warm my frozen fingers. Taking a sip of the spicy, frothy tea, I sighed as the tension in my shoulders melted away.

“They’re warming up our croissants. They’ll bring them to the table,” Drea said, bringing her coffee mug to her lips then putting it down without taking a sip. “Listen, I think… I think you ought to go talk to Jack. He’s not in the hotel anymore.”

I stared at the cinnamon floating on top of my tea. “I will. But I think I need to focus on fixing myself before I can even attempt to tackle the problems in my marriage. Turns out I’m really screwed up, you know?”

She nodded as she picked up her mug again. “Understatement of the century, love. But seriously, when you think you’re ready, I think you need to be the one to go to him. What do you think?”

I chuckled at her delicate approach. “I think you’re probably right. I also think… I want you to help me with the PTSD app I’m working on.”

Her eyebrows shot up, disappearing beneath her dark fringe. “Pardon me? But I think you just asked me to work with you?”

I shook my head. “I know you claim to be allergic to work, but I do remember you telling me you were a pretty kickass PR rep back in London. And I could really use some help marketing the app to healthcare providers. I got lucky with the Barley Legal drinking apps. But I don’t know anyone in the healthcare industry. I could really use your brilliant mind on this one. Please?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, you’re too good. You know bloody well I can’t resist shameless flattery.”

I clapped my hands softly. “Thank you!”

She waved off my excitement. “Yes, yes, that’s all good, but I thought you were going to release the app under Jack’s new company. What is it called? Restart or HeadStart?”

I laughed. “It’s called Reboot. It’s supposed to be a reference to rebooting your brain.”

“My brain could use a reboot. Or even just a warm croissant. I’ll be collecting my pension by the time we get our food.”

“I’m serious. I want you to work with me,” I said, dipping my fingertip into the froth in my cup and licking the cinnamon off my finger.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Do you really think it’s a good idea to start a new business venture without Jack when you don’t know if you’re getting divorced? Shouldn’t you wait a bit?”

“If he still wanted me to work with him, he probably would have contacted me by now.”

“Bloody hell, Laurel. You broke the man’s heart. Is he not allowed a moment to get his bearings?”

I covered my face with my hands, feeling properly shamed. “I’m awful, aren’t I?”

“No, you most certainly are not. I’m sorry I blew up like that,” she said, prying my hands off my face. “But you are the most bloody impatient woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. Just… Just give Jack some time… I hear he’s started seeing a grief counselor. Maybe something like your group thing. The point is he’s trying, Laurel. Just as you are.” Drea’s phone vibrated on the table and she rolled her eyes as she glanced at it. “Oh, Lord. If it isn’t Cunty McCuntington.”

I tried not to laugh as Drea answered her mother-in-law’s call. I pretended not to listen as she confirmed that she and Barry and the children would be in London for Christmas. And, no, she had no plans of moving back to England now that Barry was no longer working at Halo. And, yes, they did have a tamper-resistant home security system. And, no, she didn’t think any crazy Americans were going to try to murder her whole family.

Drea sighed as she ended the call. “I’m sorry about that. I can’t even say she means well. Just the other day, I heard her suggesting to Barry that he should divorce me and move back to London. She’s a total nutter.”

“You’ll want me to housesit for you while you’re gone, right?” I asked, eager to change the subject.

She shrugged. “If you can. If you’re back home by then, I can totally ask Christy.”

I shook my head at the mention of Drea’s only other friend in Hood River. We used to hang out with her occasionally after yoga class, but I stopped talking to her when I began to suspect she had sold pictures of the inside of my house to a tabloid magazine. Drea went to lunch with her a couple times while I was living at my mom’s house in Portland. She didn’t think Christy was the source of the photos, but when I asked her who she thought it was, she didn’t know.

Christy was a great place to start practicing the five items on my list. Maybe she wasn’t guilty of selling those pictures. I had already held her accountable by not talking to her for two years. Maybe now was the time to allow myself to be vulnerable. Being friends with someone meant risking betrayal, but being betrayed was part of life. And the pain of losing something or someone you cared about was preferable to a sterile, pain-free life of loneliness.

Like the Tennyson quote: Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. It was a terribly trite cliché, and also a truth so sharp it punctured the thickest cynicism. It was better to have known and loved my son for those three short months than to never have known or loved him. And if Jack couldn’t forgive me, I would move on, a better person for having known and loved him.

As Drea drove us back to her house to shower before we picked up the kids from school, I had a strong urge to ask her to stop at the market so I could get a bottle of wine. Then, I remembered — to my great horror — I was pregnant. And, even if I wasn’t, I couldn’t keep retreating inward, numbing my pain and anxiety with alcohol and destructive behavior.

I had to send Jack an email. This whole separation started with a letter to Jack. Maybe I could end it with a very different letter.