My Little Martyr

Dr. Becker sits across from Wallace, one leg crossed over the other, a legal pad balanced on his knee. He’s got that therapist look—concerned but not too concerned, nodding in a way that says I hear you without making it about himself. Wallace hates that look, but he’s here, so he talks.

“She used to lock the fridge,” Wallace says. His voice is flat. A practiced kind of flat, like a table that’s been sanded down too much. “Put a bike chain around it. I could hear it clinking when she opened it. Wouldn’t even look at me, just pulled out whatever she wanted and closed it again.”

Dr. Becker nods. “How old were you?”

Wallace shrugs. “Seven? Eight? Old enough to know I wasn’t supposed to ask for food. Not if I didn’t wanna hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“The usual.” He shifts in his seat, runs a hand through his hair, yanks a little at the ends. “How I was a burden. How my father ran off because of me. How she shoulda left me at the hospital when I was born.” He doesn’t look at Becker. He focuses on a little rip in the couch cushion beside him, the stuffing peeking out like it’s eavesdropping.

Becker doesn’t rush him. That’s the worst part. He just lets it sit there, raw and open, waiting for Wallace to get sick of the silence.

Finally, Wallace exhales. “The worst part wasn’t the words. It was how normal it felt after a while. Like, I wasn’t even mad. I just believed her. A hundred percent.”

Becker scribbles something down. Wallace wonders if it’s self-worth issues or possible PTSD. Not that it matters. He already knows he’s fucked up. “And now?” Becker asks. “Do you still believe her?”

Wallace laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I don’t think I do, but I still feel it. Like it’s carved in me.”

Becker nods again. The same slow, careful nod. “That makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“It does. That’s how emotional abuse works. It wires your brain to accept a certain reality, and even when you logically know better, that wiring stays.”

Wallace rubs his thumb against the couch. “So what, I’m just stuck like this?”

“No.” Becker leans forward a little. “It takes work, but you can rewire it. You already are. You’re here.”

Wallace doesn’t say anything to that. Just rolls his tongue along the inside of his cheek, feeling the old, familiar weight of doubt.

“I want you to try something,” Becker says. “I want you to imagine your mother sitting in front of you right now.”

Wallace goes stiff. His body knows before his mind catches up.

“Imagine she’s right here, and she just said one of those things she used to say. What do you say back?”

His fingers curl into his jeans. His chest tightens.

“I dunno.”

“Take a breath. Try.”

Wallace breathes, slow and deep, but it feels like sucking air through a straw.

He pictures her. The sharp line of her mouth. The way her eyes never softened, even when she smiled. He pictures her saying it, clear as a bell. You ruined my life.

He swallows. His throat feels thick.

But then, something moves in him. A shift. A flicker of something warmer than rage, stronger than fear.

“That’s not true,” he says, and the words feel foreign, but they land solid in his chest.

Becker smiles, just a little. “Good.”

-

The freeway hums under Wallace’s tires, the gray ribbon of asphalt stretching out ahead, pulling him forward like a current. The 405 to the 91 to the 71—familiar routes, roads he’s driven before but never with this kind of weight sitting on his chest. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel, his jaw clenches. The car’s too quiet, so he turns on the radio, but nothing sticks. He lands on some classic rock station, lets it play, lets the guitar riff fill the space where his thoughts are circling too fast.

This is stupid.

His mother isn’t going to change. He knows that. Has always known that. And yet here he is, running the words over in his head, testing them out, trying to imagine himself saying them without choking on them. That’s not true. Felt good in Becker’s office. Felt right. But that was in the safety of that little room with the shitty couch. His mom’s house is different. The air in there is thick, like stepping into a room filled with invisible hands that grab at your throat.

He takes the 91 East. No traffic. The universe is making this too easy.

His stomach twists. His grip loosens, then tightens again. He thinks about turning around, about saying fuck it, about letting it go. But he’s already too far in.

Past the Cerritos Mall, past the hills beginning to rise from the sprawl, he pictures her—sees the look she’ll give him: the tight-lipped smirk, the raised brow. The way she’ll sense the weakness before he even speaks.

The sign for Euclid Avenue blurs past.

His heart hammers.

I can’t do this.

He takes the off-ramp, pulls into a gas station and just sits. His chest rises and falls too fast, his pulse in his ears. His hands feel cold. What’s the point? She’ll laugh, tell him he’s being dramatic, turn the whole thing around until he’s the one apologizing. He knows how this goes.

His thumb taps against the steering wheel. The song on the radio changes.

He takes a breath. A real one this time.

And then another.

And then he backs out of the parking lot and gets back on the damn freeway.

The last stretch is fast. The hills roll into view, green from the last rain. Chino Hills still looks the same—strip malls, wide streets, cookie-cutter houses with big yards and the illusion of peace.

He pulls up to the house. It’s smaller than he remembers. The chain on the fridge flashes in his mind.

He gets out, shuts the car door. Stands at the front step. The frosted glass of the door obscures everything, but he knows she’s behind it. The shape of her. The hesitation.

She sees him. She knows his look.

The pause stretches.

Then the door opens.

She gives him a once-over, then smirks.

“Well. If it isn’t my little martyr.”