So we get to the second session.
John goes first. He launches into his glowing recap of the week. Every act of kindness, every meal cooked, every foot rubbed. It was all presented like a performance review. He talked about my smiles, my laughter, how much closer we felt.
It was like he was trying to earn a gold star. No, seven gold stars. One for every perfect day.
Dr. Jacobs nodded along. Calm. Patient. Neutral.
But I don't think he bought it.
I don't know for sure, but I swear he knew exactly what had happened. Knew why it had happened. Knew it wasn't real. And judging by the way my face probably looked, because I cannot hide emotion to save my life. He must have sensed something was off.
Then it was my turn.
"Lola," he said gently. "How was your week?"
And I said, "It was exactly the way John said."
He looked at me for a long moment.
"Was there anything in your journal you wrote that you wanted to share?"
I swear to God, this man had X-ray vision. Like he could feel the words I'd buried in ink. Like he knew I'd written a second story between the lines of the first one.
So I started talking.
I talked about how John makes me feel on a normal day. When he's not on his best behavior. I talked about the fear. The patterns. The tension. I brought up the fight. And I said it, plain and clear:
"He choked me against the wall."
Counselors aren't supposed to show emotion, but I saw something flicker behind Dr. Jacobs' eyes. Fury, maybe. Disgust. Or maybe just recognition. I don't know how many stories like mine he'd heard. But I got the sense he never thought it was okay.
I think that's why he did this work. Because he'd seen what it looked like behind closed doors. Because he'd seen what men like John become when no one holds them accountable.
And then… we started talking about the real stuff. Not just the flowers or the tears or the childhood trauma. Not just how hurt John was. But what he needed to do now. What he had to take responsibility for. What healing actually looked like, without manipulation.
That's when it all changed.
John started getting defensive. Then agitated. And when defensiveness didn't work, he got angry.
His voice rose. His face flushed. He slammed his notebook down on the table and exploded.
"You're not listening to anything I'm saying! You're on her side! You're trying to make her sound like some kind of victim and me like the villain!"
"I'm just HUMAN! She's twisting everything! She's making me sound like something I'm not!"
And there it was.
The mask? Gone.
Dr. Jacobs stayed calm.
He didn't flinch. Didn't raise his voice. Just looked at John and said,
"I'm not on her side. And I'm not on your side. I'm here to help this marriage, if that's what you want. So tell me… why are you here?"
John clenched his fists. His jaw. His teeth.
"I'm here because I was told I had to be here."
That was it. The truth. Ugly and naked in the room.
And Dr. Jacobs, bless that man, called it out.
"John," he said, voice calm but firm, "last session you said you were here because you wanted to fix your marriage. Because you wanted to do better."
And there it was: the contradiction.
Narcissists hate being caught in their own lies. Especially when someone calls them out without flinching.
Because John wasn't there to fix our marriage. He never was. He was there because the military told him to go. Because it was court ordered counseling, not a personal reckoning.
He had played the role perfectly in that first session. The reformed man. The broken-hearted father. The tearful husband. And now? Now the mask was slipping.
"I TOLD YOU YOU WERE ON HER SIDE!" he exploded again. "Everyone's always on her side! Everyone always thinks I'm the bad guy!"
The crocodile tears came fast. So did the snot. The shaking. The cracking voice.
"You're just saying what she wants to hear! You're not a real counselor! You don't care about me!"
He was spiraling. Loud. Messy. Rage laced with sobs.
And sitting there across from him, I wasn't scared.
I was furious.
Even now, writing this, I want to reach back through time and smack him. I want to scream at him to shut up and listen.
He wore the mask so long, I don't think he remembered how to be the man he was pretending to be.
I wish, I wish, he had learned something that day.
I wish that moment had been the breaking point that turned into healing. I wish he had taken a breath, looked in the mirror, and said, "Okay. I want to change."
I wish he had grown. I wish he had done better. I wish he had become the man he swore to be.
Because I saw the potential. I really did.
And the part that breaks me even now, the part that's making me sob into my phone as I type this! Is that I never wanted to hate him. I never wanted revenge. I never wished bad things on him.
He is the father of my children. He mattered to me. And I believed, deep in my bones, that he could be better. That maybe, just maybe, he wasn't a bad person. Just a broken one.
Even now, I still hope, quietly, painfully, that one day he becomes the man our kids deserve. The man he was meant to be. Not for me. Not even just for them.
But for himself.
Because he'll never be whole if he doesn't. Because they're still watching. And because it's not too late to try again.
We left the session fifteen minutes early. John couldn't continue.
We got in the car. And he berated me the whole drive home.
Said I had teamed up with Dr. Jacobs. Said we had ganged up on him. Said he was the real victim.
Every word, a twist of the knife.
Because when the mask slips, and the act is over, and someone finally calls out the truth?
The rage doesn't go away. It just follows you home.