The woman who found her therapist's diary

It was on the chair, when she came in for the 3 p.m. session. A small, navy, hard-backed notebook, with a slim elastic strap, slightly worn.

The therapist was not, yet, in the room.

She did not read it. She did not, immediately, even consider reading it. She moved it, gently, from the chair to the side-table. She sat down. She placed her hands on her knees. The hour began, on time, with the small ritual of how was the week.

For seven weeks, the not-reading was easy.

In the eighth week, she began to consider reading it. The considering was, in some ways, more difficult than the reading would have been. She did not, particularly, want to know what the therapist thought of her. She did not, even more particularly, want to not know.

In the eleventh week, she did not return for her session. She wrote a small, formal email, two days later, terminating the engagement. She did not, in the email, mention the diary. The therapist did not, in the reply, mention it either.

The not-reading, by then, had become its own kind of weight, which she had decided, on balance, to carry by herself.