The Sum of Our Days by Isabel Allende

and where my parents lived. Get a divorce, that’s what I have to do, I would mutter under my breath, but I must have said it aloud more than once because Willie cocked an ear when he heard the word divorce. He had gone that route twice before and was determined there would not be a third time, and he pressed me to go with him to see a counselor. For years I had made fun of Tabra’s therapist, a wild-haired alcoholic whose counsel consisted of exactly the same package of platitudes I would have given without charge. In my opinion, therapy was a mania of North Americans, a very spoiled people unable to tolerate the normal difficulties of life. When I was young, my grandfather had instilled in me the stoic notion that life is hard, and when facing a problem there is nothing to do but grit our teeth and keep going. Happiness is pure kitsch; we come into the world to suffer and learn. Fortunately, the hedonism of Venezuela shook my belief in my grandfather’s medieval precepts and gave me permission to enjoy myself without feeling guilty. At the time of my youth in Chile, no one visited a therapist—except for certifiable lunatics and Argentine tourists—so I strongly resisted Willie’s suggestion, but he was so persistent that finally I gave in and went with him. More accurately, he took my arm and dragged me there.
    The psychologist turned out to look like a monk with a shaved skull, who drank green tea and sat through most of the session with his eyes closed. In Marin County, at any time of day, you see men riding bicycles, jogging in shorts, or savoring a cappuccino at little sidewalk tables. “Don’t these people work?” I once asked Willie. “They’re all therapists,” he’d answered. Which may be why I felt so skeptical when we met with Bald Head, who was really very wise, as I soon found out. His office was a bare room painted a kind of pea green and decorated with a large wall hanging—a mandala, I think they’re called. Willie and I sat cross-legged on cushions on the floor while the monk sipped his Japanese tea like a little bird. We began talking and soon a whole avalanche was unleashed. Willie and I each tried to get our stories in first, to tell him about what had happened with you, about the terrifying life Jennifer lived, about Sabrina’s fragility and a thousand other problems, and my desire to say, The hell with it, and disappear. The tea-sipper listened without interrupting, and when only a few minutes were left to end the session, he opened his heavy lidded eyes and looked at us with an expression of genuine sorrow. “What sadness there is in your lives!” he murmured. Sadness? Actually, that hadn’t occurred to either of us. All the air blew out of our rage in an instant, and deep in our bones we felt a grief as vast as the Pacific Ocean, a pain we hadn’t wanted to admit out of pure and simple pride. Willie took my hand, pulled me to his cushion, and we hugged each other tight. For the first time, we admitted that our hearts were broken. It was the beginning of our reconciliation.
    â€œI am going to suggest that you do not mention the word divorce for an entire week. Can you do that?” the therapist asked.
    â€œYes,” we answered simultaneously.
    â€œAnd could you do it for two weeks?”
    â€œThree, if you want,” I said.
    That was our agreement. For three weeks we focused on solving everyday emergencies, and never spoke the forbidden word. We were living in a state of crisis, but the allotted time went by, then a month, then two, and the truth is that we never again spoke of divorce. We went back to the nightly dance that from the beginning had been so natural: sleeping so tightly embraced that if one turns the other adjusts, and if one rolls away, the other wakes. Between countless cups of green tea, the shaved-head psychologist led us by the hand over the rough terrain of those years. He counseled me to