Xander’s POV
Dr. Lola Sutton’s office is nothing like I expected. I'd pictured something clinical—white walls, diplomas, the sterile professionalism of medicine. Instead, it's warm.
Soft lighting, comfortable chairs positioned at angles rather than facing each other directly, a shelf of books that look actually read rather than decorative.
A box of tissues sits on the small table between the chairs, and I try not to think about how that's probably not a good sign.
Daphne sits in the chair farthest from the door. I take the one closest to her, but she doesn't acknowledge the choice.
We've barely spoken since making the appointment three days ago. Just coordination around Hope's medication schedule and the twins' activities. The kind of functional communication that roommates manage.
Dr. Sutton settles into her own chair with a notepad and pen, though she doesn't write anything yet.
She's younger than I expected—maybe forty, with kind eyes and an easy manner that immediately makes me want to trust her. Or maybe I'm just desperate for someone to tell us how to fix this.
"Thank you both for coming."
When she talks, her voice is calm and measured.
"I know taking this step isn't easy, especially when you're managing so much with your family. Before we begin, I want you to know this is a safe space. Whatever you need to say here, whatever emotions come up—they're all welcome. There's no wrong way to feel."
Daphne's hands twist together in her lap. I watch her from the corner of my eye, wanting to reach over and still them, knowing she'd pull away if I tried.
Dr. Sutton looks between us. "Why don't we start with what brought you here today? What made you decide to seek counseling?"
The silence stretches for a moment. Then Daphne speaks, and her voice is so quiet I almost don't hear her.
"Our daughter was born six weeks ago. Hope." Daphne's fingers twist harder. "During the delivery, there were complications. The doctors said they could only save one of us—me or Hope. Not both."
I watch Daphne's throat work as she swallows. Dr. Sutton stays silent, just listening with complete attention.
"Xander made the choice," Daphne continues, and now her voice cracks. "He told them to save me, to let our daughter die if that's what it took to keep me alive."
The words land in the room like stones. Hearing it said out loud, to a stranger, makes it sound even worse than it felt in that hospital corridor.
"Hope survived anyway," Daphne says, and there are tears on her cheeks now. "By some miracle, both of us survived. But I can't stop thinking about what would have happened if the miracle hadn't come. I can't stop seeing Xander standing in that hallway, choosing me over our baby."
Dr. Sutton’s gaze shifts to me. "Xander, would you like to respond to what Daphne just shared?"
I force myself to look at my wife, to see the pain written across her face, the distance in her eyes even as tears fall.
"I was standing in a hospital corridor," my voice sounds rougher than I feel. "A doctor was telling me that my wife and my daughter were both dying, that I had seconds to decide which one lived and which one died. Seconds. And I…"
My throat closes. "I couldn't lose Daphne. I have the twins to think about. They need their mother. I need…" I stop, force the words out. "I couldn't imagine a world without her in it, so I made the only choice I could make in the moment."
"The only choice?" Daphne's voice cuts through the room, suddenly sharp. "You chose to let our daughter die, Xander. You weighed her life against mine and decided hers was worth less."
"That's not what I did." The words come out hard. "I didn't choose against Hope, I chose for you, for the twins, for—"
"For yourself," Daphne interrupts, and now her anger is fully present, filling the space between us. "You chose what you could survive. You prioritized your needs over our daughter's life."
"She was going to die either way!" My voice rises to match hers. "The doctor said…"
"The doctor was wrong!" Daphne's standing now, though I don't remember seeing her get up. "Hope lived, which means maybe she could have survived even without me. Maybe if you'd chosen differently…"
"Then you'd be dead." The words come out flat, final. "You'd be dead and I'd be raising three girls alone, and Nina with Lisa would have lost their mother."
"So their sister's life was an acceptable sacrifice?" Daphne's hands are shaking. "That was the calculation you made?"
"There was no good choice!" I'm on my feet too now, facing her across the small space. "There was only impossible and slightly less impossible. And I chose you because I love you, because the thought of living without you…"
"What about living without Hope?" Daphne's voice breaks on our daughter's name. "What about her having to live knowing her father decided she was expendable?"
"That's not fair."
"None of this is fair!" Daphne shouts, and the sound echoes in the small office. "None of this should have happened! We shouldn't have been put in this position, but we were, and you made a choice, and now I have to live knowing that you'd sacrifice our children to keep me alive!"
"One child," I say, and I hate how cold my voice sounds. "I would sacrifice one child to save you and protect the other two. And yes, Daphne, I'd make the same choice again if I had to."
The silence that follows feels like the end of something.
Daphne sits down slowly, her face pale. Dr. Sutton, who's been watching this entire exchange with calm attention, finally speaks.
"What you're both expressing are all valid emotions. Trauma like what you've experienced doesn't have easy answers. The important thing is that you're expressing these feelings instead of letting them fester."
She looks between us. "This is hard work. It's going to feel like opening wounds before they can heal properly. But that's part of the process."
The rest of the session passes in a blur. Dr. Sutton guides us through some exercises, asks questions that neither of us can answer satisfactorily, reminds us that healing takes time.
When our hour is up, she schedules us for next week and sends us out into the parking lot where the late afternoon sun feels too bright.
The drive home is silent. Daphne stares out the window. I grip the steering wheel and try not to think about how she looked at me during the session. Like she didn't recognize me anymore. Like I'd become someone she used to know.
At home, I help with Hope's evening medication, handle the twins' bedtime routine, move through the choreography of family life like an actor who's forgotten his lines but knows the blocking.
When it's time for bed, I don't go to our room. Daphne doesn't ask me to. I just head to the guest room, giving her space, knowing that today opened wounds instead of closing them.
I lie in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling, and think about how Daphne looked at me today. Like a stranger. Like someone she used to love.
Progress takes time, Dr. Sutton said before we left. These things don't heal overnight.
I stare into the darkness and wonder if we have enough time left. If there's a limit to how long two people can keep trying before trying becomes the thing that finally breaks them.