Therapy homework was odd but ordinary. Let a towel hang crooked. Plate your own dinner, uneven on purpose. Ask before suggesting. Aaron complied. When he fell back into an old habit, he caught himself mid-correction, cheeks flushing. “Do you want a suggestion?” he asked instead. Sometimes she did. Sometimes she wanted to be messy. Both were okay.
They named habits he’d called courtesies: inspecting, portioning, timing, wiping, rehearsing. Naming them made space. It was like stepping back from a painting to see the frame. “Right can include messy,” the therapist said. Aaron laughed once—short, bewildered—at the idea that crumbs did not have to be cleaned up at once.