Session Six: Adam at the Backyard Grill
EXT. BACKYARD – LATE AFTERNOON
The grill is cooling. There’s a garden hose sprawled like a metaphor. Adam stands by a plastic table with one of those scratched-up pitchers of lemonade and a look like he’s three seconds from explaining what went wrong but needs another thousand years to find the words.
[Therapist note: session held outside by client request. Prefers “airflow.” Has not stopped adjusting things—chair leg, hose nozzle, the theological undercurrent of humanity’s trauma.]
ADAM (pointing with tongs):
See that? That sprinkler head? Crooked. Bent. Like me, after the fall.
And yeah, I still call it the fall. I know it’s got marketing issues.
Look—I didn’t set out to ruin anything. I wasn’t trying to be the guy everyone uses to explain why they can’t commit.
I just didn’t know.
Deception wasn’t a category yet.
The snake was the first liar. I was the first sucker.
And now I’m the reason your dad won’t say “I’m proud of you” unless you mow the lawn diagonally.
[Therapist note: pacing. Keeps re-coiling the hose. Avoids eye contact unless making a point. Emotions visible only through lawn care metaphors.]
They say I should’ve protected her.
But from what?
She was literally the only other person. We didn’t have “stranger danger.” There were no stranger categories.
She said, “Here, try this.”
I said, “Okay.”
And then… boom. Shame. Death. Mosquitoes. The whole package.
And it’s not like she gets the blame anymore. She’s a feminist icon now. Seduced by a system. Misunderstood. Victim of patriarchal framing.
Which—fine. Maybe.
But where’s my nuance?
I was tricked, too. I just didn’t look as good doing it.
[Therapist note: holding back tears. Disguised as allergy sniffle. Keeps wiping hands on shorts like there’s grease that isn’t there.]
And the consequences?
Her? Pain in childbirth. Longing for me.
Okay. Hard stuff, I get it.
Me? I get cursed ground. I get “sweat of the brow.”
You ever try to grow a tomato from scratch with dirt that hates you personally?
That’s my every Tuesday.
And the kids? Don’t ask. Cain and Abel were not a great first draft.
One’s a murderer. One’s a martyr. And I’m the guy with a rake trying to explain forgiveness to two people who’ve never seen rain.
And yeah—I know Jesus forgives me. I know He loves me.
But don’t think I don’t catch that little side-eye when communion gets quiet.
[Therapist note: slaps grill lid closed. Emphasis. Possibly dramatic. Definitely personal.]
You know what hurts?
It’s not the blame. I get the blame.
It’s that now every man thinks he has to be better than me to be worthy.
Not healed. Not honest. Just… perfect.
And they’re not.
And they hate me for proving it.
[He stops. Picks up a fallen leaf. Looks at it like a thing that once meant something else.]
I just wanted to love her.
And I believed her.
That’s the part no one wants to admit.
The first sin wasn’t pride.
It was trust.
[Therapist note: silence. First time. Long enough to register grief. Not long enough for peace.]
Anyway—
You want a burger?
They’re a little overdone. But they’re still good.
Like me.