I hadn’t met her therapist before. I agreed to meet with them to discuss ideas about our relationship. Within the 50-minute session she said, “Clearly, you need to move and get out from under that toxic influence.” But, that was not what my girlfriend wanted to hear. A few minutes later she was yelling at me about how furious she was at not being allowed to “deal with it.” It’d been nine months at this point, and I was still restricted from going over the wall to their house. They were her landlords too. Their house shared a backyard with a walkover ladder.

It didn’t go that well, honestly, but it did open up the discussion of her “best friend” and her husband’s hatred of me. Maybe I reminded him of someone from his past. Perhaps he didn’t like seeing someone with the mother of his godchild who wasn’t a millionaire. That part was true. I was unable, at that moment in time, to provide more than comfort and love. And it got worse when Covid sent most of us to the bunkers. At that moment, we essentially moved in together. The timing was not great, but the alternative was being alone as the world shut down.

The therapist knew my girlfriend better than I did. And she had been counseling her about these toxic friends. But, I was the first boyfriend. I was the reason everything was uncomfortable. Her friend “tried” to befriend us as a couple, but it didn’t take. She soon withdrew across the wall to never talk to me again.

And that was it. I broke twice. I left. I cried. I argued. I negotiated. But she was a willing hostage. I was not yet a reliable source of comfort or shelter.

This was the information I missed from the session with the therapist: she was never going to choose me over her landlords. The saddest part, however, was that she never really put up a fight on my behalf.

Read more Short-Short Stories from John.