I walk in the front door, and our beagle, Oscar, greets me, but no Nick. This has been our life; the second I get home, Nick is here to greet me, regardless of what he’s doing. It is one of the many ways he continues to make me feel special, but when he’s nowhere to be seen, our dog and I go search for him. Sure, the dog adores me, but he and Nick are inseparable. “Where’s Daddy?” I ask Oscar, and when his deep brown eyes look up at me, I know he’s not seen my man either.

The door to the back porch is open, and when I hear the sloshing of ice cubes, I know my guy has had a rough day and is drinking his whisky on the rocks. I’m not sure what I expect. He’s been like this since he heard the news of Emma checking herself out of the facility. Walking up behind him and rubbing his back doesn’t startle him. He knew I’d find him. I’d walk to Egypt through the desert for this man. He’s staring out at our backyard with his hands on the railing. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I kiss his ear, and he relaxes into my touch.

“Hey, cowboy. What brings you to the backyard with your drink on the rocks?” He always has it at room temperature unless he’s upset about something. I’m not sure what it is that makes him switch to ice cubes when he’s upset, but I have not yet unraveled that mystery. Since Emma had Aspen, this has been more normal for him as he suffers through watching his daughter struggle as she has.

“Ty heard from Emma.”

Oh, this can’t be good. “Really?”

Rocking on the tips of his toes while twisting his neck as though it is sore, he begins, “Well, actually, Ty heard from the facility where Emma checked herself into.”

He’s not happy about her taking the reins of her treatment, but it sounds like good news to me. “This is good, babe,” I insist, turning him around so I can see his handsome face.

“Yes and no, I guess. It is some hippy-dippy commune retreat. This is just like something Emma would do to be able to make this her own choice. Ty gave me the website information. There seems to be no science behind it; it’s just this retreat that claims individualized care. The facilitator was not even able to tell Ty much more because Emma wants to keep this to herself for now. He claims the success rate is over ninety percent, but they have many programs, not just the more severe postpartum. I don’t know. I just want this to be over for her. I want my Emma back.”

So many things in this world make my husband wonderful. He’s a kind-hearted, sincere, caring, and bend over backward for you kind of man. However, he’s also stubborn, quick to temper, and at times, he’s hardheaded, as he’s being now. He pulls back and sees the expression on my face. He’s now noticing I’ll have a few choice words to say as I can feel my expression sour.

“Well, I can tell you disagree,” he says, breaking my hold on him.

“I do, but I refuse to fight with you about this, cowboy. First off, this is Emma’s choice. Part of her taking ownership of her problems is to be able to have a bit of control. She has no hold over her emotions or hormones right now. They’re still all over the place. Sure, I don’t agree with her checking herself out and worrying us shitless, but it’s okay for her to want a bit of control and to have a say. I agree with you and Ty that she needed something, but she swore to me that she no longer wants to hurt herself. She’d thanked her lucky stars she didn’t succeed with her suicide. Her issue now, as hard as it is to admit, is the lack of love she feels for Aspen. So if she needs this hippy-dippy retreat, as you call it, then it’s what we will support.”

These harsh words make my husband slam his drink down and retreat into the house for a while. I give him space because he needs this as much as he needed a stern talking-to. He’ll find me later, and when he does, he’ll apologize, and I’ll forgive him because our relationship has seen worse. I love him, he loves me, and that’s all that matters.

* * *

I’m in the kitchen making tacos, the one meal I can prepare halfway decently. I’m giving my husband space when his cell on the counter near me rings, scaring the shit out of me as I’m cutting tomatoes. It shows up as an Albuquerque number. Answering it right away, I only say, “Hello.”

“Justine?” I hear Emma’s familiar voice.

“Emma, honey, is that you?” I ask, but I know it is. I’m just not sure what to say to her. I miss her, hell yes, but more so, I’m worried about both her and Nick.

“Justine”—she pauses— “I’m honestly glad you answered. I’m not up to talking to my dad yet, but I want him to understand why I did this.”

She knows her dad too well; however, she’s thinking of someone other than herself. I haven’t heard Emma concerned for someone else in a long time, and this gives me hope.

“Justine, are you still there?”

“Yes, honey,” I assure her. “All I want is for you to get well. That is all we want.”

In her silence, I know she must wonder about her dad. “But Dad, he’s not happy about this decision of mine?”

Looking around the kitchen, I make my way to the back deck to give myself some privacy. “All I know, Emma, is for the first time in months, you are taking ownership of your own recovery, and this gives me hope, but hell, honey, it should give you hope, too. You know your dad. He’s the best, but he’s also of one mind, and sometimes, it takes longer for him to get that you’re an adult.”

I hear her crying now. “Thanks, Justine. It means the world to me that you have my back and that you understand.”

“I do, sweetheart. I really do.”

“Can you tell my dad I love him and help Ty as much as you can? I want to get back to him. I really do.” Besides her mentioning Tyler at the airport, this is again another person she’s thinking of.

“I will, sweetheart, and we will continue to help Ty and Aspen. Just worry about your recovery.” As we say our goodbyes, she mentions she’ll be calling her mom next. This is the Emma I know and love—one who makes sure those she cares for are all right.

Turning to walk back into the kitchen on this cold October evening, I see Nick and wonder how much he heard of this conversation. Mad won’t describe the feeling he will express because I didn’t go get him when she called. I casually say, “That was Emma. She wanted me to tell you she loves you.”

His high-pitched voice, the one he uses when he’s set off, tells me he, as I figured, is mad as fuck. “And you didn’t get me?” He follows me as I’m walking back to my tomatoes.

I choose not to engage him but only say, “Remember, cowboy, this isn’t always about you. This is Emma, and she’s taking charge of her recovery on her terms.”

“Cumquat!” He borderline screams, and it is my signal he needs time alone. That, I can give him because all I know is, when I talked to Emma just now, it was the first time in a long time the old Emma made an appearance. Again, it fills me with tremendous hope. I know for a fact Nick will get on board with that.