Zachary arrived Tuesday with a book.
"I thought you'd find this interesting." He set it on my desk. "Philosophy of punishment. The author argues that rehabilitation is a myth society tells itself to feel better about retribution."
I picked up the book. The spine was worn, pages marked with sticky notes.
"You disagree with rehabilitation?"
"I think it's wishful thinking." He sat down. "People don't fundamentally change. They adapt. Learn better strategies. But their core nature stays the same."
"That's a very pessimistic view."
"It's a realistic view." He leaned back. "You believe people can change because you need to believe it. Your father's an addict. If people can't change, then he's always going to be an addict. That's unbearable. So you choose to believe in rehabilitation."
My jaw tightened. "My father has been sober for two years."
"Has he changed, or has he just stopped drinking?" Zachary tilted his head. "Does he still have the impulse? The compulsion? The psychological patterns that led to addiction in the first place?"
I wanted to argue. But he was right. My father still attended meetings. Still struggled daily. The addiction hadn't gone away. He'd just learned to manage it.
"Managing addiction is changing," I said.
"Managing is coping. Not transforming." He gestured at the book. "That's the author's argument. We don't rehabilitate criminals. We teach them to hide their nature better. To calculate consequences more effectively. To appear reformed while remaining fundamentally the same."
"You're describing yourself."
"Exactly." He smiled. "I haven't changed since we started therapy. I still have violent impulses. I still lack empathy. I still see people as game pieces. I've just gotten better at pretending otherwise."
"Then what's the point of therapy?"
"That's what I'm asking you." He leaned forward. "What's the point of trying to rehabilitate someone who can't be rehabilitated? Why not just help them function better as what they are?"
"Because that's giving up on humanity."
"Or it's accepting reality." His eyes were intense. "You spent your dissertation arguing that society's definition of empathy is too narrow. That some people operate on logical moral frameworks instead of emotional ones. Why can't we apply that here?"
"Because logical morality without empathy leads to what you did. Beating a man nearly to death because it was 'efficient.'"
"I didn't say it was moral. I said it was logical."
"Those aren't the same thing."
"Aren't they?" He tilted his head. "Morality is just collective logic. Society agrees that certain actions are wrong because they harm the group. I agree violence is generally counterproductive. We reach the same conclusion through different paths."
I grabbed my pen. "But you don't feel bad about hurting people."
"And you don't feel bad about letting people suffer when you could help them."
I stopped. "What?"
"You have three pro bono clients you can't afford. They're destroying your practice financially. You know you should terminate them, refer them elsewhere, focus on clients who can actually pay. But you don't." He paused. "Why? Because you'd feel guilty. That guilt is your empathy making you act against your own survival."
"That's called compassion."
"It's called self-destruction dressed up as virtue." He leaned back. "I harm people to achieve goals. You harm yourself to avoid guilt. Which is actually more destructive?"
My mind raced. "That's not the same thing."
"Isn't it? Harm is harm. The fact that you're directing it inward instead of outward doesn't make it noble. It makes it cowardly."
"I'm not a coward."
"Then why are you drowning financially while refusing help? Why are you working yourself to exhaustion while pretending you're fine? Why are you choosing poverty to prove you're not your father?" His voice was sharp. "That's not strength. That's fear."
Heat flooded my face. "You don't know me."
"I know you better than you know yourself." He stood, pacing. "You wrote in your thesis that addiction is a form of self-punishment. That addicts subconsciously believe they deserve suffering. You're doing the exact same thing with poverty."
"I'm not punishing myself."
"You're a brilliant psychologist with a PhD from Columbia working in a practice that barely covers rent. You refuse to raise rates. You take clients who can't pay. You turn down legitimate job offers." He stopped pacing. "If that's not self-punishment, what is it?"
I couldn't answer.
"You think poverty makes you morally superior to your father. Poor and ethical versus wealthy and destructive. But you're just destroying yourself differently." He met my eyes. "At least my self-destruction helps me achieve goals. Yours just makes you miserable."
"This conversation is inappropriate."
"This conversation is the most honest we've been." He sat back down. "You keep trying to analyze me, but you're the one who needs therapy."
"I'm not your therapist anymore?"
"Were you ever?" He smiled slightly. "Every session, we end up here. Debating philosophy instead of discussing my violent impulses. Because this is what you actually want. Intellectual engagement. Someone who challenges you."
He was right. I'd looked forward to this session all week. Not because I was making therapeutic progress with him. Because talking to him was exhilarating.
"Let's talk about rehabilitation again," I said, trying to steer back to professional ground. "You say people can't change fundamentally. But what about learned behavior? Conditioning?"
"Conditioning is just sophisticated programming. The core remains the same."
"Then how do you explain people who overcome trauma? Who break cycles of abuse?"
"They learn better coping mechanisms. They don't become different people. They become better at managing who they've always been."
"That's incredibly cynical."
"It's honest." He leaned forward. "Nina, do you think your father stopped being an addict when he got sober? Or did he just start managing his addiction better?"
I thought about my father in recovery. The meetings. The constant vigilance. The way he still gripped his coffee cup like he was fighting the urge to grip something else.
"He's managing it."
"Exactly. He didn't transform. He adapted. That's all anyone does." Zachary paused. "I'll never develop empathy. But I can learn to simulate it better. To predict emotional responses. To function in society without hurting people unnecessarily. That's not rehabilitation. That's adaptation."
"Is that enough?"
"Is your father's sobriety enough?" He countered. "He's still an addict. He'll die an addict. But he's a functional one. That's what society actually cares about. Function, not transformation."
We talked for another hour. Debating free will versus determinism. Whether morality was objective or constructed. Whether rehabilitation was possible or just a comforting lie.
I forgot to watch the clock.
Forgot he was paying by the hour.
Forgot this was supposed to be therapy.
We were just two people arguing philosophy, and it was the most engaged I'd felt in years.
"Your session ended forty minutes ago," Zachary said suddenly.
I looked at the clock. 3:40 PM. His session was supposed to end at 2:50.
"Oh. I'm sorry. I lost track of time."
"Don't apologize." He stood. "This was the best conversation I've had in months. Maybe years."
"I should charge you for the extra time."
"You won't." He walked to the door. "Because you stayed because you wanted to, not because I was paying you. That's significant."
He left before I could argue.
I sat alone in my office, staring at my notepad.
The page was covered in notes. But they weren't clinical observations. They were arguments. Counterpoints. Philosophical questions.
This wasn't therapy.
This was conversation. Connection. Intellectual intimacy.
I flipped back through my notes from our previous sessions.
Session one: formal, clinical, distant.
Session two: more personal, but still professional.
Session three: boundaries blurring.
Session four: no boundaries at all.
The progression was obvious. Damning.
I'd stayed ninety minutes not because he needed therapy, but because I enjoyed talking to him.
I'd violated boundaries without being pushed. Without manipulation. Just because I wanted to.
My hands shook as I wrote a final note.
'Personal observation: I'm developing feelings for my patient. This is a severe ethical violation. I need to terminate immediately.'
But even as I wrote it, I knew I wouldn't.
Because next Tuesday, I'd look forward to seeing him again.
And the Tuesday after that.
And every Tuesday after, until I couldn't remember what it felt like to not have him in my life.
I closed my notepad.
I was falling.
And I didn't know how to stop.
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