A/N: The boys' ages and grades are my headcanon.

"Dad, you came!" Sean says, and he sets his weight on the crutches so he has a free hand to ruffle his son's hair.

Sean groans and squirms away, and Danny chuckles. "'Course I came. I wasn't gonna miss our first day of school tradition just because of my stupid ankle. How'd it go?"

Sean sighs. "9th grade is gonna be just as bad as 8th."

"You'll get through it, kid. You're a smart cookie. Where's your brother?"

"Somewhere where he doesn't have to be seen with his 'froshie' kid brother."

"I remember feeling the same way when Erin and Joe were in school. And I thought 'froshie' was a college term."

Sean shrugs and throws his backpack in the car then climbs in.

The car behind Linda's honks, and Danny grabs the door to steady himself as Jack runs up to them, nearly bowling him over, and gets in the car without a word to either.

Danny maneuvers himself back into the car, staring at his left ankle. It's still puffy from the sprain ten days earlier, so he can't wear the walking boot. He's wearing an over-the-counter brace and hoping that provides enough protection he doesn't sprain it again. It would probably help the swelling if he were icing it like he's supposed to… He just really doesn't like being cold.

"How's 11th grade?" Linda asks once they're all buckled, inching forward in the carpool line.

Jack shrugs. "It's fine. History's gonna be a bear this year, though."

"This isn't the way home," he says ten minutes later as Linda turns down a side street.

"That's because we're not going home. We're going to get ice cream."

"But you have work, and Dad…"

"I don't work until 7, Jack. I do have to run to a meeting while you three are eating your ice cream, but I'll pick you up and we'll have dinner before I go to work," Linda says.

"You want me to get you a strawberry milkshake for after your meeting?" Danny asks, and she reaches across the console to squeeze his hand.

"You know it."

Linda drops them off and makes sure Danny gets situated in the booth.

Danny kisses her, sighs when she quietly slips a pain pill into his hand. He'd asked her to make sure he took them—he had—but he hates that he has to take them. He pretends to yawn, popping it in his mouth and dry-swallowing it, then takes a bite of his chocolate ice-cream cone.

"Biology sucks. Why do I have to take it?" Jack asks, digging into his cup of strawberry ice cream.

"Because you have to take three years of science, kiddo."

"Bobby only has to take two," Jack gripes.

"Well, that's between Bobby and his parents and your teachers."

Sean takes a bite of his pistachio cone. "Why were you taught by nuns and we're not?"

Danny lets out a sigh. Talk about a big question. "Ask your mother; she can explain that a lot better than I can—better yet, ask Grandpa."

He pulls his phone out and snaps a picture of his boys, and sits back to listen to Sean tease Jack about the girl he apparently has a crush on.

Linda looks at the clock. 30 minutes left.

"Why did you leave Danny—especially that second time, after he told you he was afraid of being left?" Dr. Bennett asks again.

If she were Danny, this would be the point where she'd storm out or punch something or yell. But she isn't Danny, and she's the one that asked for this session, so she can't do that.

"I told you—because I was frustrated with him. He got himself kicked out of physical therapy!"

"Did you ever think, maybe, that he and the physical therapist weren't a good fit?"

She gives the older woman a look. "Really? That was his second session—that's way too soon to determine if they're gonna be a good fit!"

"Is it? From what you've told me, Danny knows if he's gonna work well with someone or not. But we're not talking about Danny—we're talking about you. Why did you react the way you did?"

"I needed to go grocery shopping?" It's a lame excuse, and she knows it. Making the chicken noodle soup Danny had asked for, had just been a convenient reason to get out of the house. "Besides, I didn't leave him alone—Dr. Dawson had just gotten there, and…"

"What were you afraid of, that you couldn't stick around to risk seeing?"

"That Danny would do something to hurt himself and that I wouldn't be able to stop him."

She blinks back tears when the words are out. That hadn't been what she planned to say. It sounds so stupid, so selfish, so heartless—that she left because she didn't think she could save him from himself. But…

"That's not what I meant," she says quickly. "I just…I was frustrated with him. I've worked two shifts a week except for the first week he got hurt, and it's like having three kids instead of two 'cause Danny is really a horrible patient, and…I was afraid I'd say something that would make him think that I…that I wanted him to…"

She trails off.

This is really hard.

"I was afraid he might misunderstand my frustration as…not wanting him to be around anymore, as me wanting him to…"

She can't say the words. Two years after Danny's year-long struggle with PTSD, depression, and suicidal ideation and suicide attempts…she still can't say the words out loud.

"You were afraid Danny would hurt himself?" Bennett asks.

She nods, blinks back the tears on her face.

"Are you responsible for Danny's actions?"

That feels like a trick question. She isn't—she knows she isn't—but she is still so afraid of doing something that might make him think that…

She shakes her head.

"So you left?"

"What should I have done? Snapped at him? Said something I couldn't take back?"

"Linda, you're a smart woman. What other things could you have done that would not have meant leaving the house?"

She tries to change the subject twice—but ultimately has to admit that she could have gone to her room and read a book, or gone down to Danny's erstwhile refuge—the basement—or gone into the backyard.

"That's your homework, then," Bennett says, closing her notebook—her signal that the session is over—"the next time you're frustrated with Danny or afraid you'll say something, leave the room but do not leave the house. Better yet—tell him where you're going."

She nods, and flees to her car, where she dries her tears and puts some makeup on to hide the fact that she's been crying—from the boys, because Danny's going to notice, no matter how much makeup she's wearing.

She hopes Danny remembered her milkshake.