Before I Let Go

“Even when things fell apart between Josiah and me, we still had our three babies. Deja, Kassim, and this place, Grits. When we realized those were the only things holding us together, we knew it would be better to dissolve our marriage than to go on as what we had become. Well, I knew.”

Yasmen’s language here underlines her commitment: The restaurant means as much to her as her children. The shift from “we” to “I” demonstrates that she still thinks of Josiah as her collaborator and partner, and she reluctantly admits that the divorce was far more unilateral. Her comment “we still had our three babies” leaves an unspoken gap for the baby, Henry, that they don’t have.

“My ghosts and grief gathered around these tables. A knot of anxiety burgeons in my belly, and panic strangles me so tightly I can barely breathe, but I do what my therapist taught me. Deep breath in, slow breath out. Deep breath in, slow breath out. At first I can only manage tiny sips of air and my head spins, but each breath deepens, lengthens, deploys life-giving calm to my tingling extremities.”

Because her fall in the restaurant led to the placental abruption that killed Henry, Yasmen sees her restaurant as a haunted space. It evokes anxiety and panic and makes it difficult for Yasmen to breathe. The repetition of her breathing invites the reader to join her, narrowing her focus only on her survival. Her ability to breathe through the emotions shows her progress in working through her trauma. Therapy has empowered Yasmen to rescue herself, and such self-care will be an ongoing theme of her recovery.

“We executed every phase of our dreams right on schedule. Graduation. Check! Marriage. Check! Start a business. Check! Baby one. Check! Baby two. Check! Baby three…I shake off the thoughts like shackles and pull into the garage.”

Ryan’s language here is precise and clipped—dreams are “executed” like a military operation or strategic plan because she and Josiah are goal-oriented and driven. The milestones are accomplishments, so the loss of baby number three is a devastating failure, and the memories of her trauma hold her captive.

“‘The irony of you saying you don’t want to see someone hurt me.’

‘I—I don’t.’

‘No one in my whole life has ever hurt me like you did.’

Shock shuts me up. I’m struck dumb, but the accusations he doesn’t bother voicing, the grievances I didn’t realize were so deeply held, screech in the silence.”

Yasmen’s stammering response to Josiah’s bitter comment betrays the uncertainty between them and their struggles with emotional honesty. Josiah admits that Yasmen hurt him badly, but she finds herself unable to respond. He doesn’t go into detail, so that unspoken pain “screeches” in a silent space. The paradox demonstrates the depths of their unresolved issues.

“They’re good friends and I can’t dim their light because I have shit I’ve never dealt with—at this rate, probably won’t ever deal with—that makes it hard for me to hold a baby.

So I take her.”

Josiah’s inner monologue reveals that he regards his grief as an indulgence that would harm his friends if he faced or named it. He characterizes his son’s death as “shit [he’s] never dealt with” rather than explore and heal his trauma. His decision to hold the baby illustrates a core aspect of his personality—he cares for others while dismissing his own emotional health.

“When the rug is pulled out from under the life they thought they would have forever, how do they pretend it’s not seismic? That the roof hasn’t fallen in and they’re trapped under a concrete beam? How do you breathe when the person you thought you’d cherish forever looks at you the way Yasmen looks at me right now because you’ve hurt them so much?”

Josiah’s metaphors in this moment are domestic in nature. A life is a home, and its unexpected loss leaves him feeling he’s buried in its rubble. The questions betray his doubts and uncertainties, in contrast to his outward brusqueness and pragmatism. Josiah, too, compares his struggle to a difficulty breathing, similar to Yasmen’s panic attacks, but his pain comes from the inability to understand hers.

“Stillbirth. Entry into a world that child has already departed. The paradox of birth and death swaddled in one soundless moment. Not the first slap on the bottom and cry of new life, but a mother’s dirge. A bell that never tolls. I curled into myself in a sterile room with starchy white sheets, hot, silent tears carving grief into my cheeks.”

Ryan’s staccato sentence structure conveys both finality and pain. Birth and death are swaddled together in place of her living child, and her grief is a series of metaphors for silence, to underline Henry’s absence. Yasmen turns inward because her pain is intensely personal, and she feels permanently marked by grief.

“‘Do I think it’ll do anything for me? Hell, no, but if it might help Kassim adjust, I’ll go.’

‘I see.’ She blinks, her pretty lips shaping into a wry curve. ‘So therapy might help children or weak-minded people like me, but couldn’t possibly be of any benefit to someone as strong as you.’

‘You know that’s not what I’m saying. Don’t twist my words.’

‘I don’t have to.’ She stands abruptly, the coolness in her eyes not enough to disguise the hurt.”

Josiah’s dismissive tone demonstrates how differently they perceive the value of counseling. Yasmen accuses him of seeing therapy as useful only for those beneath him in status, social position, or character. Josiah effectively proves her point because, despite seeing the pain his attitude causes her, he does not apologize or reconsider his own preconceptions.

“I want to drag Josiah aside and beg him to let down his walls just this once. To at least pretend he hurts like the rest of us mortals so his son doesn’t feel alone.

‘Me too.’ Josiah squeezes Kassim’s shoulder, that unique tenderness he withholds from everyone except our kids gleaming in his dark eyes. ‘Remember, I’m gonna talk to a therapist too.’”

In this moment, Yasmen, desperate to reassure Kassim that it’s OK to need help, imagining herself begging Josiah to face his emotions. She imagines not a real reckoning but a contrived lie that will be enough if it spares her son hurt. Josiah surprises her when he confesses his real vulnerability. By assuring Kassim that he is keeping his promise to talk to a counselor, he reinforces their bond and destigmatizes seeking help.

“The hell I’m saying that shit out loud. It’s naive, romantic nonsense, and the version of me who first met Yasmen, who fell for her almost on sight, may be able to get away with that sappy bullshit, but the guy who watched her leave in increments every day for a year, who begged her to stay and had to accept that she would go? That guy doesn’t get to indulge in soft, squishy thoughts about my ex-wife.”

Josiah’s use of expletives indicates that he is still avoiding his feelings. He dismisses his past passion as “nonsense” and “sappy” and sees such sentiment as weakness, a fantasy his present self cannot indulge. He sees himself as two people—the man hardened by loss and the man who once loved. He sees softness as a betrayal, confirming that Yasmen’s doubts about his willingness to be vulnerable are valid.

“‘It was a good night,’ I say, my throat burning as I try to break our stare. It’s like we’re in the middle of that tiny apartment again, shivering, huddled under blankets and eating cheap food from the grocery store in the light of candles. Perfectly content. A fist squeezes my heart until it oozes nostalgia and regret.”

In this scene, Yasmen’s eye contact with Josiah evokes memories of when they were poor but content together. Her “nostalgia” and “regret” prove that the divorce has not changed her attachment to him or diminished her longing for what they once had.

“How many adults never admit they need help? Need someone to talk to? Never get the help I’ve begun to understand therapy can offer? A quick dart of shame pierces me. At ten years old, my son is braver with his feelings than I’ve ever been. I look up to find Yasmen’s eyes not on Kassim, but on me. Pleasure, pride—there’s some mixture of them clear in the small crook of her smile.”

Josiah’s catalogue of questions here contrasts sharply with the skepticism of his early therapy sessions. He has overcome feeling that counseling is something for other people, but not for him. By recognizing Kassim’s strength in identifying and talking about his feelings, Josiah admits he’s been afraid to do the same. Yasmen’s gaze on Josiah indicates that she appreciates the work he has done, and he has some satisfaction in knowing his progress has made her proud.

“And maybe it would work, would reassure me if the memory of that moment in the office hadn’t been haunting me the last few weeks. Standing between his legs, the strength of our wills clashing, emotion boiling in the air. As much as I try to disregard it, to believe it meant nothing, I’m not convinced. Nothing has ever meant nothing between us.”

Yasmen’s word choice here is particularly telling, as she is now more haunted by her enduring attraction to Josiah than by her earlier grief. Standing very close to him, she feels their energy “clashing” and “boiling,” both verbs of high intensity. Yasmen admits that their entire history makes ignoring that energy impossible—their life together had meaning, and it continues to influence their present.

“I return to the spot where I stood, where I tossed the past into a well of wishes, and I lean over to peer into the water. The lights in the fountain floor illuminate piles and piles of coins, but no necklace. ‘I was standing right here,’ I mutter, propping a knee on the rim of the fountain, leaning over and peering in. ‘It has to be here.’ I have no right to hope my happily ever after with Josiah will come around again. It’s irrational. It’s unfair. I did this to us, to him, to myself. I don’t deserve a second chance, but is it worth fighting for? Is he?”

Yasmen has attempted to let go of her past by tossing a necklace with her old wedding ring attached into a fountain. She admits she still wants Josiah and returns to retrieve the necklace; her unwillingness to stop searching for it among the coins is evidence that she will pursue Josiah and work to reconcile. She blames herself for her divorce and her family’s pain, but her questions reveal the hopes she is afraid to voice.

“‘[Vashti] thinks you and I will eventually get back together […]’

‘Did you tell her that’s ridiculous?’ Yasmen asks […]. ‘That you don’t want me anymore? That you wouldn’t touch me with a six-foot pole?’

I’m a glutton for punishment and a fool for lust because despite going weeks convincing myself one night would have to be enough, I cup her jaw and lay my hand at her waist, drawing her into me.

‘I’m touching you now.’”

Yasmen attempts to gain control in this situation by voicing her fears before Josiah can reject her. Josiah describes his temptation and suggests that Yasmen is undermining his defenses. Using body language similar to his proposal in the Prologue, he touches her face and embraces her. His gesture and words end the ambiguity about what he wants from her.

“His kiss is sweet, the way he licks into me, bites at my lips, holds me by my chin while he ravages my mouth. Finally he pulls back, collects my sweater and bra. Grinning, he takes my hand and leads me toward the stairs.

‘I remember the way.’”

Yasmen describes the passion and tenderness she feels from Josiah. His smile and ease contrast sharply with his earlier reserve. His words evoke their past without bitterness and lead her toward their future.

“We gather her into our arms, the three of us huddled together, unique in our challenges, but twined in our love, our support for one another. Maybe if I’d had this when everything fell apart, I could have held it together, but I want to stop what-iffing my life. Little by little I’m learning to do the best I can and live with the consequences.”

Here, Yasmen describes how she and Soledad embrace Hendrix, who is grieving her mother’s dementia. Yasmen has learned that grief is more bearable when shared and that she deserves to show herself compassion. Therapy has also taught Yasmen to accept, without self-flagellation, that she’s doing her best. Her growth enables her to authentically support those she loves who are suffering.

“I kiss her hip, brushing my lips over the small rings of Saturn etched into her skin by her first pregnancy. ‘I see Deja.’ I lick at the concentric sunburst around her belly button. ‘I see Kassim.’ I caress the slightly raised C-section scar stretched between her pelvic bones. ‘I see Henry.’”

Josiah’s tender kisses and words are a clear moment of reconciliation with past and present. While the stretch marks might be considered imperfections, he embraces them, naming them as part of the children he treasures. He names their lost child along with their living ones, demonstrating the depth of his own healing.

“I cry, too, but it’s as much relief as anything else. That after so much time of cutting remarks and frozen silences, I have something real with my daughter, even if it is her tears.”

Where Yasmen once cried alone, she and Deja now weep together and share their feelings openly. Tears once signified the depths of her loss, but now they remind her of what she has gained: the opportunity to repair their bond. Yasmen accepts that authentic grief is better than silence and resolves to use it to build a better future.

“She licks her lips and stares down at the tennis shoes on the floor between us. ‘But I want us to build our lives together again, and not because it’s what’s best for the kids or because it makes sense for our business.’ She presses her hand to my chest, spreading her fingers over my breastbone, her eyes filled and brimming over with so much love, my throat catches fire. ‘I want you back.’”

Like Yasmen’s necklace, Josiah’s shoes are a tangible reminder of their bond. She looks at them before asking for him back because she draws strength from her memories. She articulates her desires, emphasizing that she sees a future built on more than shared responsibility. Even though he’s not sure he can trust again, Josiah recognizes that Yasmen is radically open, naming desires she had previously feared voicing.

“Reflexively, my hand goes to her hip, possessive, anchoring her to me in case she decides to run. ‘Yes, Josiah,’ she says in a watery whisper to the question I couldn’t make myself ask. ‘I love you.’”

Even as Josiah doubts her promises, he clings to Yasmen. His concerns are not a lack of feeling but a lack of security. Yasmen finally answers his earlier question, in a gentler echo of their earlier fight, and assures him of her love.

“The tissue Dr. Musa thrusts in my direction like a white flag startles me, and I look at him, confused. ‘What’s that for?’ I ask, my voice emerging like gravel. He nods to my face with a faint smile. ‘For the tears.’”

When Josiah compares the tissue to a flag of surrender, he understands his confession to Dr. Musa ends his battle with his emotions. Previously, Josiah associated tears with Yasmen and resented his own inability to cry. His ability to be more authentic demonstrates his character growth and the value he’s found in therapy.

“Josiah clasps our hands together on the counter for our children to see. ‘But long story short,’ he says, his openly loving gaze set on me, setting me on fire, ‘I’m coming home.’”

In this scene, Josiah relies on both gestures and words to convey that he and Yasmen are unambiguously reunited. He can show Kassim and Deja his feelings because he has clarity about the future. Yasmen sees Josiah’s love for her, and his words assure the children that the couple is committed to the next chapter of their relationship.