The next day, Jeff sends a group text, full of encouragement and that earnest energy he’s known for. One by one, everyone chimes in. I even spot Donna’s number among the contacts which makes me grin.

Of course, I can’t help but tease Jeff: “Thanks for starting this chat and checking in on us during our recovery. I hope Donna finally gave you her number! LOL.”

Later, he replies, every bit as formal as if he’s writing a work email: “Donna never gave me her number after all. It made me laugh. I told you yesterday, but I appreciate your input in all the discussions. I’m grateful for your wisdom and reserved approach. When you spoke, the whole room listened—including me. Kind regards, Jeff.”

His tone comes across as polished and polite, maybe a little too much. Still, the way he singles me out, saying the whole room listened, makes something flutter inside me. A small smile tugs at my lips, even as a knot of unease twists in my stomach. Is he just being nice? I’m unsure, caught between flattery and caution.

A week drifts by and amid a busy work morning, my phone buzzes with another group notification. I don’t respond right away, but scrolling through, I feel a genuine warmth from everyone checking in, making sure we’re all OK. That kind of support feels real, almost precious.

Then, hours later, a private message from Jeff lights up my screen. I pause, curiosity prickling.

“Hello Lena. I appreciated your response this morning. See below. Unfortunately, I feel like I’m at the beginning stages of letting myself feel these emotions? Could we catch up tonight or tomorrow with a call? I’d like to pick your brain about my dreaded next steps!”

He even pasted my own words from earlier:
“Me talking to God and listening… The mind is so complex. It can be an ally or an enemy… those intrusive thoughts. You can rationalize the hurt, pain, grief, anger, and sadness in your head. Allowing yourself to feel all of those things is where the healing happens. You gain more insight when you let your body ride out the emotions.”

That familiar flutter stirs again. My words landed with him, resonating in a way I hadn’t expected. But I hesitate. I know this feeling, this pull to help, to nurture, to offer comfort. I’ve been down this road before, especially with Reginald. It’s so easy to slip into the role of therapist, so hard to climb back out. That old exhaustion clenches in my chest.

But Jeff’s message seems genuine, and I can’t ignore someone reaching out. Compassion is woven into me, a lesson I’ve carried ever since I promised myself I’d never be like those who hurt me.

I pause, breathe, and finally type back: “I’m happy to help. Obstacles are just part of the journey. We all move at our own pace, but we’re all growing and healing. I’m free later today if you want to talk. Just let me know what time works.”

This isn’t new to me. I’ve been the listening ear for friends, coworkers, even strangers. Somehow, it always seems to matter to someone.

A few minutes later, Jeff texts that he’ll call from Minneapolis at 8 PM Eastern. I remember his work trips, but think nothing of it.

When the call comes, we talk for half an hour, longer than I’d expected. We sift through the tangles of marriage and miscommunication, especially from his wife, Melissa’s perspective. “She’s just trying to survive,” I tell him. And I know that state intimately. In some ways, I’m still surviving too.

Jeff listens, grateful for my insight. Then, quietly, he asks if he can pray with me.

Pray? The word catches me off guard. No one has offered that since my childhood. My mom stopped praying with me long ago. After that, it was just, “Don’t forget to say your prayers.” I’ve prayed alone for years, but it’s never felt quite like comfort.

“Of course,” I say. And I appreciate it.

He prays—really prays—for me, for my family, for my wisdom, for my compassion to bless others. His words settle over me like a gentle hand. I’m surprised at how deeply it moves me, how much it lingers after the call ends.

Minutes later, another message: “A most sincere thank you, Lena. I very much appreciate and respect your input. Hope you have an enjoyable night.”

I reply, “You’re very welcome. It means a lot to share my experiences, hoping it helps someone else.”

He’s grateful, and for a long moment, I just sit there, letting his prayer echo in the quiet. And for the first time in a long while, I feel comforted.

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.