“So,” the therapist smiled across the corner of his desk at the young woman who’d come in for her first therapy session, “in your own words, why are you here?”
“My grandparents can’t accept that my parents are dead and want to throw money at private investigators and others of less dubious ilk to find them. They all think I’m being “obstructionist” and they want you to help me become non-obstructionist.”
“And what do you think about that?” The therapist had a reputation for a kindly, paternal professional persona.
“It’s not going to change that I saw them both die on the first day of the war.” Parthi sighed. “My grandparents tell me that I was only eleven and didn’t know what I was seeing but, unfortunately…”
“You have told your grandparents this?” The therapist was making notes as they spoke.
“Yes. I’ve told them that if they want to find Mum and Dad, then they need to find out what the enemy did with the bodies of the people killed on the streets of Safkella when they invaded but my grandmothers insist that they would “know” if my parents were dead.” Parthi smiled wryly. “Apparently their intuition trumps what I saw.”
“There’s no chance that you’ve filled in details over the years to explain why your parents didn’t come back for you after you were separated?”
“I see you’ve been briefed by my grandparents.” The wry smile hadn’t disappeared from Parthi’s face. “No chance at all. I survived, my parents didn’t and my grandparents want to cling to false hope.”
“And you have no need for closure?”
“What’s to close? My parents were killed by enemy soldiers who probably didn’t even see them, but we won the war. It might be nice to have somewhere to go and lay flowers someday, but at best it’s going to be a mass grave site.”
“And at worst?” The pen had stopped moving.
“Well, that depends entirely on what they did with the bodies, doesn’t it?”