Three Breakdowns A Year Was All I Was Allowed Chapter 01

By my fourth year of marriage to Nathan Reed, a psychologist, I was allowed only three breakdowns a year.

He said, “Your partner isn’t a dumping ground for your emotions. You need to learn to work through them yourself.”

I’d used this year’s three on a miscarriage after a car accident, getting laid off, and my mother’s tumor surgery.

Once I hit my limit, I even hid when I cried after a nightmare.

Sophie Collins, who’d entered his graduate program after him, had no such limit.

When she couldn’t sleep, he stayed with her until the early hours.

When her paper was rejected, he listened to her cry all night long.

A friend teased him. “Dr. Reed charges six hundred an hour. What’s that going to cost?”

He smiled. “She doesn’t count.”

Then, at the end of the year, my older brother died suddenly.

I didn’t cry when I signed the paperwork for his death certificate, but once I got home, I held on to Nathan and broke down.

“A fourth time… Could I owe you this one?”

He comforted me for three hours.

I thought he’d finally made an exception.

The next day, his practice sent me a bill.

[Emotional intervention, 3 hours: $1,800.]

Then Nathan sent me a link.

[Online emotional support chat: $3.99/month.]

[Next time you’re upset, use this.]

I added the contact.

[My brother just died. I might cry the whole time. Would that bother you?]

The reply came immediately.

[No.]

[Go ahead and cry. I’m here.]

…

That night, I talked to Three Ninety-Nine for a long time.

I told him my dad had died young, and my brother had started working at sixteen, helping Mom put me through school.

By the end, I didn’t even know what I was saying. I only remembered the tears soaking into my pillow.

The third time I recounted my brother’s last phone call, he simply replied:

[I’m listening. Your brother was so good to you.]

Eventually, I was too worn out to cry anymore and fell asleep holding my phone.

Early the next morning, a payment reminder from the practice’s assistant woke me.

[Mrs. Reed, please pay the $1,800 balance by noon.]

I checked my bank account. $42.76.

Nathan had controlled the account my paychecks went into ever since we got married.

He said putting him in charge of our money was part of my treatment, too. He gave me just a hundred dollars a month to live on.

I checked every bank account I had. I still didn’t have enough.

In the end, I took out the gold bracelet my brother had given me.

He’d bought it with his first bonus, during his first year at work.

I sat holding the box for a long time.

Tears fell, one by one, onto the back of my hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not selling it. I’m just borrowing against it.”

I clutched the bracelet in my palm the whole way there.

At the pawnshop, the owner weighed it.

“Thirty-one hundred dollars.”

I sniffled, still holding on to it.

“I’ll come back for it.”

“I mean it. I’ll be back.”

He was quiet for a moment, then nodded.

When I finally let the bracelet go, a deep circle remained in my palm.

I looked at my empty hand and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“As soon as I have the money, I’ll bring you home.”

As soon as the money came through, I sent $1,800 to the practice before doing anything else.

The assistant then sent me the [Annual Family Member Emotional Management Record].

[First incident: Pregnancy loss. Repeated requests for confirmation observed. Recommend limiting repetitive discussion.]

The day I miscarried, I’d asked three times whether the baby was gone.

Nathan had said, “Asking again won’t change the answer.”

After that, I never asked again.

[Second incident: Involuntary job loss. Catastrophizing observed.]

[Third incident: Major surgery of an immediate family member. Anxiety manageable. No additional intervention required.]

At the end of the document, it said:

[Annual goal: Reduce emotional dependence and improve self-regulation.]

I stared at the words until my vision blurred.

So that was all those things were to my husband: emotional problems to be corrected.

That afternoon, I went to sort through my brother’s belongings.

A piece of paper fell out of an old book.

[Reed Psychology Practice Appointment Confirmation.]

[Provider: Dr. Nathan Reed.]

But the patient was my brother.

The date was three days after my miscarriage.

Under it was a cancellation slip.

[Checked in: 1:40 p.m. Canceled: 5:07 p.m.]

He’d waited more than three hours without even seeing Nathan.

On the back of the appointment confirmation, he’d written:

[I want to ask what to do when Claire can’t sleep at night and cries every time she closes her eyes.]

He’d crossed out the last sentence, then written it again.

[Could I beg Nathan to treat my sister a little better?]

I bit down hard on the back of my hand, afraid to make a sound.

I kept biting until I tasted nothing but blood. Then my stomach lurched.

I rushed into the bathroom, braced myself against the sink, and retched.

Nothing came up.

Only that one line remained in my head: [Could I beg Nathan to treat my sister a little better?]

Without thinking, I tapped Nathan’s profile picture.

I wanted to tell him: My brother came to see you.

But my finger hovered over the call button, and I remembered the $1,800.

In the end, I closed the conversation.

Just as I opened the support chat, a message came through.

[How are you doing today?]

I stared at it for a long time.

[Not well.]

[I miss my brother so much.]

When I got home that evening, the study door was slightly open.

Sophie was crying on the phone. “Am I telling you this for the third time?”

Nathan spoke softly.

“Thirty times is fine, too.”

“Keep talking until you feel better.”

I stood outside the door and suddenly understood.

He knew how to comfort someone.

He’d just never given me that kind of patience.

After he hung up, he took one look at my eyes and reached to pull me into his arms.

“I’ll make an exception tonight. I can stay with you again, and it won’t count.”

I stepped half a pace back without thinking.

His hand froze.

“Haven’t you always wanted me to spend more time with you?”

My phone lit up.

[Did you get home? If you want to talk tonight, I’m here.]

I looked at the screen for two seconds, then shook my head slightly.

“No.”

“I don’t need that anymore.”