The last Divorce Recovery class is ending when Jeff suggests a group hangout. “Something light to end on,” he says, his voice booming with a confidence that fills the room. Cody, our facilitator, smiles and vouches for him. I watch Jeff scan the group, his eyes lingering on me for a fraction too long, and my stomach clenches.
Is he trustworthy?
The question sends me back to the first time Jeff cornered me. He strode over, grinning like we shared a secret. “My wife is also petite. And a nurse.” He announced it as if he’d landed on some cosmic fluke.
I stared up at his tall, husky frame blocking the ceiling light. Was he trying to connect or just playing at something? “What a coincidence,” I said, forcing a polite smile.
Then he chuckled, admitting, “I used to mentor people on keeping their marriages strong. Now I’m the one showing up for help, right next to someone I once coached.” He nodded toward Cody, amused at his own irony.
“That’s really ironic. God has a sense of humor,” I responded.
Yet Jeff cracked up and leaned down to hug me, saying, “You’re so nice. I appreciate you and all the wisdom you bring to the group.”
The exchange felt off then, just as it does now.
Still, I couldn’t shake the memory of his confession from a few weeks ago. He slumped in his chair, head in his hands, admitting his wife had called him a narcissist. “Controlling, emotionally abusive,” he recited, his voice thick with a strange mix of shame and surprise.
My heart had gone out to him. “I don’t think so,” I stated. “If you’re questioning yourself, going to therapy… that’s not what a narcissist does.”
He looked up, his smile so full of relief it felt like a reward. But now, that moment sours in my memory. I had let him off too easily. Doubt clings to me, gnawing at the edges of my certainty.
During one session, Jeff suggested we switch seats to break up the monotony, just for fun. I played along, only to find him right next to me. The following week, I moved next to Brad—quiet and steady—hoping for a buffer. But as the class settled, Jeff walked past three empty chairs to pull up one right beside me. Tension twisted in my stomach. He was absolutely doing this on purpose.
In that session, Jeff complained about his wife getting half of his retirement. “She gets 50 percent and what… I get no sex,” he griped.
Silence fell. Did he really just say that? In my head, I pushed back: Just because you provide doesn’t mean your wife owes you anything. Sex isn’t compensation for a paycheck.
What an entitled ass. My hesitation about sharing my number with him deepens.
Jeff hands out his number anyway, waiting as the rest of us text ours or promise we would. Donna, the older woman, fumbles with her phone, muttering, “Whatever, I don’t know how to deal with these things,” and leaves Jeff awkwardly hanging.
I can’t help but laugh, suggesting he ask Cody for her number if she agreed. Jeff thanks me for my soft-spoken approach, saying again, how much he listens when I speak.
Those words. He’d said it all season: “When you speak, Lena, I listen.” And it feels good to be heard, to know someone is paying attention.
Maybe Jeff isn’t so pretentious. Maybe he means it. But then I remembered how quick he was to judge Amy, how he dismissed her as a “hot mess” and insisted he could never learn from her. I told him everyone had something to teach us, that people have layers, and that it takes time to understand their stories.
He grinned, repeating how much he valued my insight, how he listened when I spoke. No man had ever said that to me, not like this, not so often.
Reginald said nothing of the sort. With him, it was a constant battle to be heard, and his responses were always a deflection: “Alright! I heard you,” or “Elena, didn’t I say I’d get to it?” The memory still lingers as an ache for a need that was never met.
That’s the wound Jeff’s words press on, a remedy and a poison all at once. My chest tightens, tears stinging my eyes.
Right now, all I can do is just breathe.
This post is part of a fictionalized memoir. The emotional experiences and themes are drawn from my life, but all names, identities, timelines, and circumstances have been altered, obscured, or combined to protect privacy — including my own. These writings are not meant to diagnose, label, or describe any real person. Instead, they illuminate relational patterns that can occur in emotionally imbalanced or narcissistic dynamics. Any resemblance to actual individuals is coincidental or intentionally obscured. The intention is healing and awareness, not identification. These posts are for storytelling purposes only and do not constitute professional advice.
The images woven through My Journey and The Lessons are my own photographs — moments I captured on trails, in forests, beside rivers, and under open sky. They are pieces of my story and are not to be copied or used without permission.
Leave a Reply