The day my therapist killed himself: shock, tears and then came a revelation

Words have a way of gaining wisdom when their speaker ceases to exist, writes novelist Julia Pierpont as she looks back at an unsettling relationship

The day I found out my therapist killed himself I'd taken a cab to the appointment, feeling myself in a hurry. Dr H had a way of holding it against you when you were late. A block from his office, we hit traffic and I ran the rest of the way, sweating under my heavy coat (it was January). But the young doorman stopped me in the lobby. He gestured toward a stiff leather armchair and had me sit while he stayed standing.

"So listen, uh, I'm sorry no one told you," he started. "But, uh." Dr H was dead. He'd, uh, taken his life. Even as he faltered, it was clear that the doorman had been doing this all week. He had little deli napkins at the ready when I found myself suddenly, surprisingly tearful.