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and resumed business as usual.  My mother was horrified by the effects pregnancy had on her previously impeccable body, and spent well over a hundred grand to repair the damage I caused.  Ultimately my cost exceeded my value, so they determined children were a bad investment and a hindrance to their quality of life.  These are not the type of people who have sudden moments of introspection—nothing good will come of this dinner,” I finished with conviction.
    “Well, I’m convinced.  Next?”
    “Are you mocking me?” I asked, confused by her quick dismissal of my mommy and daddy issues.
    “Not at all.  You seem to comprehend that their issues are theirs, not yours.  While you’re understandably apprehensive about the dinner, you aren’t harboring any unrealistic expectations and have already developed healthy coping strategies to process your feelings concerning your parents.  Unless you begin to exhibit inappropriate emotional responses to their behaviors or indulge in self-destructive coping mechanisms, I see no reason for us to explore this any further.  Do you want to analyze the minute details of every disappointment you have ever suffered at their hands?  We can do that, but I’ll need to grab my calendar to schedule all the additional weekly visits.”
    “Sarcasm much?”
    “I am happy to waste your time and money by exploring every little facet of your past and psychoanalyzing the myriad ways each has shaped your psyche…if that would make you feel better,” she deadpanned.
    “You should grab coffee with Everleigh some time—you two would have a blast out-snarking one another.”
    “Since Everleigh is your best friend, I will take that as a compliment,” she countered, successfully turning my poke around.
    “Two peas in a freakin’ pod,” I muttered.
    “Next?”
    “Geeze, I might as well be waiting my turn at the supermarket deli counter, holding a little ticket with a number on it.”
    “Sarcasm much?” she parroted my earlier barb.
    “I’m not sure if you are the best therapist ever or the worst.”
    “I get that a lot,” she offered without concern, causing me to laugh.  “Don’t worry, I’ll grow on you.”
    “If you have a magical solution to cure my night terrors, I will commit to providing you an organ of your choice should a transplant ever become necessary.”
    “Now that is a tantalizing offer.  My patients are far more biddable when I drug them…” she paused and I stared at her like she was a complete lunatic.  “ Kidding .  Of course I could prescribe a sleep aid if you don’t currently have one, but that would not be my suggested course.”
    “What do you suggest?”
    “Homework.”
    “Such a dirty word to be throwing around so casually.  Okay, lay it on me.”
    “I want you to find a part-time job in an environment you feel safe to help increase your comfort level in public—consider it exposure therapy.  Plus, you need something to do besides shopping,” she said as she eyed my outfit, correctly pegging my current method of passing time.  “You should attend the dinner at your parents’ next week.  At the very least it will clear them off your list of worries.  I also want you to establish a regular exercise routine.  Sign up at a gym and use it.  It will aid your sleep and possibly help reduce the number of night terrors you have been experiencing.  Not to mention, it’s another public venue for you to build comfort and confidence.”
    “I can handle those assignments.”
    “Oh, one more—eat!  The Italian in me is dying to shove heaping piles of carbohydrates into that scrawny little body of yours.”
    I laughed at her exclamation; it was clear she wasn’t exaggerating for effect.
    “Will do, Chef Boyardee,” I teased, glad to be ending on a positive note and with several manageable tasks to focus on.  “It’s been…strange, but good…I think.”
    “Excellent.  You handled me better than most do on their first