They'd known what they were doing, those therapists—I had to admit that now. They'd known what my reaction would be to the news. Instead of letting me have it out with my sister, instead of letting me browbeat her into abandoning the plan, they hadn't even let me speak to her until I'd undergone a little therapy of my own. I hadn't been an easy subject, but I'd eventually come to understand. I couldn't have stopped Theresa from going on her wanderjahr, if that was what she wanted. Sure, it represented a risk—the therapists and detox doctors recognized that. But the damage to her self-esteem if I, or they, had forbidden her to follow her own truth would have been much more devastating, and absolutely certain. It had been a hard sell, but I'd finally accepted that this was the final therapy for Theresa: final confirmation that she had control over her own life, and her own direction.