my therapist, nudges tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of her nose and slides a box of Kleenex towards me, as if today will be the day my guilt spews out, coming to rest, putrid and toxic, on the impossibly polished table between us. ‘So, Jenna.’ She shuffles through my file. ‘It’s approaching the six-month anniversary – how do you feel?’ I shrug and pick at a stray thread hanging from my sleeve. The
