That’s Our Time
This week, Eric Smith’s Dr. Ambrose helps a young family adjust to time’s changes.
~ Julian and Fran, March 9, 2025
March comes to you with Sunday Morning Transport stories by Stephanie Burgis, Eric Smith, Sarena Ulibarri, and Leah Cypess. As always, the first story of the month is free to read.
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That’s Our Time
by Eric Smith
I can hear the family fighting outside my office door.
With a sigh, I get situated in my soft blue-jeans-colored fabric accent-chair-for-one, spectacularly cozy and catty-corner from the sister couch where my patients sit. I run my hands over the armrests.
No matter how many times I sit in this chair, or even on that couch, something about a good piece of fabric furniture is soothing as my fingertips buzz against the pattern’s grain. It’s old, certainly compared to anything out there with smart fabrics. But I don’t need my furniture telling me how it’s doing, that something spilled on it.
Besides. I like a little history.
“We need this!” someone yells from the lobby, a woman, and there’s the sound of ceramic being knocked over. I startle back, my routine interrupted. It was probably a coffee mug from the kitchen that my poor receptionist, Suzanne, will likely sweep up the second the session starts. Thank God IKEA sells mugs in bulk; we’ve ordered the same ones so many times that I even remember the name, which sounds more like a hero in a Norse saga than a ninety-nine-cent cup that comes in packs of twenty-four.
Färgrik.
I tap a button on the intercom sitting on the side table next to my seat, my bullet journal and a marbled pen in a leather catch-all to the left. Suzanne is determined to get me to upgrade to a tablet and one of those pens that has AI in it so it transcribes automatically, but that’s just not for me. And while I’m aware of how bullet journaling “went out of fashion”—thank you, Suzanne—certain things haven’t for me. Probably never will.
“You can send them in, Ms. Colbert.”
“Right away, Dr. Ambrose.”
Before she lifts her finger off the intercom in the lobby, I hear a man’s guttural sob and a woman’s voice muttering “Jesus Christ, Jeff.”
I try not to be judgmental in here. To make assumptions. That’s not the job. And I understand the painful place a lot of these parents often come from all too well. But when things get bad to the point that a family has to come see me and my specialized practice, it is almost always the fault of one person in the family unit. And I try to use “fault” loosely. When dealing with what I do, or any therapist that works with families, there’s got to be some grace with that word.
This time, I know it’s the father.
But there’s always something a little more.
The door to my office opens gently. First, a woman. I peek down at my open notebook, at my scrawled-out prep notes. Julia Anderson. Despite the sharp words I overheard outside the door, the yelling and the frustrated muttering, she has the demeanor of a young high school English teacher. Hip and unbothered, soft highlights in her layered hair, jeans and a vintage band T-shirt. I question whether it’s meant to be sincere or ironic. Morris Day and the Time.
And then Jeff Anderson walks in behind her. She doesn’t hold the door open, and it bumps against his shoulder as he shuffles in, his expression dour, his skin dry. Like he’s cried himself free of moisture. He seems unable to figure out what to do with his hands, balled up and wringing his wrists, his eyes flitting around the room, a frightened animal. While Julia feels like she could walk onto the soundstage of a teen sitcom, he’s wearing corduroy slacks and an elbow-patched jacket, his entire anxious vibe like a community college professor without tenure who knows he’s about to be fired.
“Please,” I say, standing up and gesturing toward the couch in front of me.
Julia takes a seat, and when Jeff joins her, she scoots away a little.
Oh boy.
“Did you find the office okay?” I ask, making a note about their body language.
Jeff chokes back a sob.
“Jeffery, oh my God—” Julia starts, but then exhales sharply and shakes her head a little. Like she’s trying to recenter herself and put on a show. I know this type of patient. They come in, hoping to “win” therapy, which is just a sign something else is going on. Something hidden. She closes her eyes for a minute, her mouth a straight line, before looking at me. “Sorry.”
I reach under my side table, pluck out a box of tissues, and hold it toward Jeff. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve and shakes his head, but I wiggle the box at him, nodding.
“Please, I insist.”
He takes the box and places it in his lap.
“So . . . what brings us in today?” I ask.
I ask, but I know.
Julia looks at Jeff, who seems to wilt a little. I wonder how long this has been going on. How long he has been holding on. The wedge of held-on time is a sharp one that never dulls. It just keeps cutting. And these two are wounded. In every session, in every situation like this, when it gets to this point, when science and medicine and religion fail, it can sometimes feel like one parent isn’t just at fault . . . but the enemy. The one with the sharp glares and barbed words, or the one with the pained expressions and wild tears.
Truth is, no one is wrong.
No one is the bad guy.
We’re all just trying to get through it.
I should know.
“Why don’t I start? Maybe talk about how I approach treatment?” I ask after a beat that goes on a little too long. Jeff exhales, like he’s been holding his breath, and probably has. Julia shrugs and nods.
“Well, I’ve been a family chronotherapist for the last ten years.” I lean forward a little. “I went to my undergrad at Drexel University in Philadelphia and then earned my PhD in metaphysical family medicine at Penn. I was lucky enough to work as a resident there for a few years before opening my own practice. I live here in Philadelphia, and I treat patients here, though I do work with a few people from out of town from, excuse the phrase, time to time.”
I smile at them.
I get nothing back.
Great.
“I find that the closer I am to where the problem is,” I continue, “with the family, the easier it is to untangle those threads of time. Treatment is different for everyone. But I hope through talking together, we can understand what has you blocked”—I try not to look at Jeff while I say this, and force myself to glance at the space between them—“and what will effectively get you unstuck—”
Julia sucks at her teeth, and I look over at her.
She shakes her head.
“Is there something—” I start.
“We’ve tried everything,” she says, looking me right in the eyes. “Every doctor at CHOP. We went to church. Church! I haven’t stepped inside a Catholic church since my parents forced me to do confirmation. And then his mother”—she points at Jeff—“his mother came over with a bunch of crystals and sage. Putting rocks all around our house and burning herbs so our home smelled like a damn pizza. I just want this fixed. I just want my boy . . . our boy . . .”
And just like that, she’s crying.
Jeff inches toward her, carefully holding out the tissue box, and she swats at him with one of the throw pillows.
“Don’t!”
Jeff inches back.
“How about,” I continue, scribbling in my journal and also making a note to maybe take the throw pillows out of here, “we start from the beginning. When did you first begin to notice time stopping for . . .”
“Casey,” Jeff says, and it strikes me that this is the first time I’ve heard him speak. His voice is surprisingly gravelly, like he’s smoked a pack of cigarettes a day since he was eight years old, but I suspect it’s from yelling or crying or whatever might be going on in their home. “It was about three years ago.”
“He should be ten years old!” Julia snaps.
“So, he’s stuck at seven?” I ask, taking notes.
“Yes . . . ,” Jeff says, tearing up again. He puts his face in his hands and sniffles loudly, looking back up, blinking. I nod at the tissue box that’s back in his lap, albeit with a dent in it, and he mumbles some kind of thank-you while plucking a few out.
“Generally, this kind of displacement, this kind of familial temporal block, is the result of some unresolved emotional trauma from one of the parents,” I continue, jumping right in. The situation here is clearly heightened. This isn’t just a few months of being stuck as a toddler, or a kid not hitting puberty because one of the parents is terrified of that jump. Those get untangled quick, and sometimes you don’t even notice. A month time delay here, a week there. But this? Years? And during the middle school age?
“Is there anything—” I interject, looking to Julia.
“I’m fine,” Julia says, and she’s looking at the wall.
All right, so she’s not fine.
I make a note in my book to come back to that later.
“Jeff?” I ask, treading carefully. “Julia says this is your fault, yes?” I don’t like that word, but it sometimes gets us to the point faster. I notice Julia looking back at us, tilting her head a little. “Why would she think that?”
“Because . . . because it is,” he says.
Julia huffs in approval.
“Tell me what’s been happening,” I say. “Wherever you need to begin.”
“It’s just . . .” Jeff clears his throat. “How am I not supposed to be scared about our kid moving through this world? I feel like I barely make it through most days.”
Julia snorts out a laugh, and Jeff winces.
“Julia . . . ,” I start.
“Sorry, sorry.”
“Go on.” I nod at Jeff.
“When I was a kid, we still had regular cars. Now? Everything has to fly. There’s different math now. We print our meat; I don’t even know where my food comes from. Everyone’s phones stopped being in their hands, and now people have chips in their head or wear those little visors. . . .” Jeff groans, rubbing a hand over his face. He stops, looking at his hand. “Even the rings. Do you have one of these?” He wiggles his fingers. “The smart rings? I hate them. I hate all of it.”
I look at Jeff, really look at him. Not just his clothes, but his accessories this time. And then I glance over at Julia. While they’re both wearing glasses, I can see that she has a heads-up display behind her lenses. It’s not on, but you can always tell by the way they reflect a little differently, like there’s a small oil slick.
“And I know, I know how that sounds. She tells me all the time,” Jeff continues. “‘You sound like a grandfather, you sound like an old uncle.’”
“That’s not how I talk,” Julia grumbles. She looks at me with a shrug. “Well, it isn’t.”
I fight back a smile.
I know the type. Jeff’s type.
“It’s just that . . .” Jeff sighs, his head in his hands for a beat. He looks back up at me. “How am I supposed to prepare a child for a world I don’t understand? Where you can print everything in your house, from a new fork to a piece of furniture.”
“That’s a good thing, Jeff, Jesus.” Julia exhales loudly.
“The more I think about Casey moving forward, the more I worry I don’t know how to push him,” Jeff says. “How do you push someone out when you don’t really get what’s going on out there?”
“Thank you for sharing.” I nod, writing in my journal. Temporal displacement due to a fear of not understanding the future? It’s not unusual, but it feels a little too about him and not about his kid. In cases like this, usually the displacement is maybe a few months, at maximum. A few vitamins interlaced with time crystals and temporatic molecules, and we can usually get someone caught up. If it’s even necessary.
In this case, three years stuck, it’ll be necessary. I remember high school. There were more than a few displaced kids when I was younger, before anyone understood what it was. No one is ever nice to the fifteen-year-old that looks like they could be eleven, with or without problems with time. Bullying tends to be timeless.
There’s something else going on here.
I write down a few more notes and feel eyes on me, and when I look up, Julia glances away.
I tap my pen against the journal.
“Julia,” I say, and I see her tense up. Okay. There’s something here we aren’t getting to. “When did you notice the displacement occurring for Casey?”
“What?” She squints at me, shaking her head. “What do you mean?”
“Well, what was the moment that made you realize something was off?” I ask, leaning back in my chair a little. “You and Jeff took Casey to other specialists over the years. Jeff’s mom provided . . . unconventional suggestions. When did it click for you that Casey wasn’t moving forward in time?”
She glances at Jeff and back at me.
“My niece’s birthday,” she says. “They were born the same month, same year. She’d gotten a bit taller and was starting to get really into books. You know, those chapter readers? But Casey . . . it had been nearly eight months without any growth. He was still obsessed with these holofigures from this movie he loved when he was six. You could just see how different he was.”
Julia shakes her head.
“Standing out . . . that’s not good,” Julia says. “And we tried to keep him moving through school, but the teachers started to notice pretty quick. I’d tell them he’s eight or nine or ten, and they’d press back. I had to keep bringing birth certificates in. I ended up having to keep one, a photograph, on a tablet in my purse. But that’s when I noticed it first. That party.”
I keep writing in my journal.
“What are you writing in that thing?” she asks.
I glance up at her, and she’s scowling at my hands.
“It’s important to take notes so I remember where we’re at.” I shrug. “Helps me think about treatment, where we’re going. Where you’ve all been.”
“Why not just record it?” Julia asks.
“Well, I suppose I’m a bit like your husband, moved toward the old school, as they say.” I smile, and glance over at Jeff, who laughs a little.
“Great.” Julia grumbles. “Now I see whose side you’re on.”
“There’re no sides here,” I gently insist. “We’re all on the same team.”
“Right.”
I look over at Jeff, his face awash in concern. He wrings at his wrists again, and Julia is focused on the wall across the room, not looking at either of us.
“Let’s try something here,” I say, inching up in my chair. “Tell me a little bit about your childhoods—”
“What,” Julia snaps, looking back at me, “does that have to do with anything?”
I glance at Jeff, who winces.
Hm.
“Well, sometimes our experiences as children color our experiences as parents. In fact, I’d say more than sometimes.” I tap my journal. “Were your parents a little overprotective? Distant? You talked about how standing out is bad, how it’s better to blend in. Where does that come from?”
“I don’t see how any of this has to do with—”
“Julia, you never know,” I press.
She stares at me and then looks at Jeff, who only nods.
“I’d like to keep the focus on figuring out how to help Casey, if it’s all the same,” Julia says, arms crossed.
The wall is up.
There’s something here.
“Julia, growing up—”
“Casey,” she says, sharp. Still looking away.
I glance back at Jeff, who shakes his head.
All right. This changes things. There’s something else at the heart of this. The father is afraid of moving forward because he’s stuck in the past a bit, when it comes to how to prepare his child for the world. But there are endless parents who feel this way. Who don’t understand the latest internet trend or whatever new music is out or a fashion choice. If it stops time, it’s not for long. It’s the parent dragging their feet, not wanting to move on. Not wanting to grasp the latest craze in releasing EDM songs on repurposed eight-track players or something.
I set down my journal.
Well. Here we go.
“How old do you think I am?” I ask. I glance over at my intercom and reach out to unplug it. I look back at Jeff and Julia, who look at each other, clearly puzzled. “Go ahead.”
“Fifty?” Jeff ventures.
“Forty-five,” Julia counters, leaning back on the couch.
I smile, leaning forward.
“I know how I look,” I start, rubbing my hand over my face. My beard, that of a young man, my skin, not yet wrinkled and cracked. “And generally, I don’t share my story with clients. It’s one of those things therapists just don’t do. But sometimes I find that empathy and understanding help parents unlock something. And show them, in some cases, the”—I swallow—“I hate to say consequences, but consequences of not moving on.”
Julia blinks and Jeff picks at a cuticle, eyes on me.
“I’m actually eighty-nine.”
Jeff startles back, the tissue box tumbling from his lap.
“No!” Julia gasps.
I try not to smile or laugh and just shake my head.
“How? How?!” Julia asks, and reaches out, grabbing Jeff’s arm.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, you don’t have to say—” Jeff starts.
“No, no.” I shake my head, a hand up. “It’s okay. This was before we had a treatment for this sort of thing, before we understood it. And I’m sure you’ve seen a few people like me around, or on the news. But we try to hide it. I know a woman who looks twenty-seven but is really in her sixties.”
Julia snorts out a laugh. “Must be nice.”
I shrug.
“Matter of perspective, I think.” I go on. “Is it nice to have had extra years to read and research? Sure. Made college easier when I finally looked old enough to go. But it’s not great to watch your childhood friends grow old and get married and move on while you’re locked in. Or move to a new city and state because you need to start over somewhere, where people aren’t suspicious of a teenager who seems to have been a teenager for a decade.”
“But surely . . . surely they knew this was happening elsewhere . . . ,” Jeff stammers out. “I mean, I’ve seen documentaries. . . .”
I shrug again.
“Took a while. I was one of the first. I have a few friends who were too. At least, that we know of.”
“Why?” Julia asks.
I smile.
“Parents who couldn’t let go,” I said. “My mom was a nurse, my father was a doctor. They saw things, their whole careers. Kids in the hospital. Teenagers. Younger adults. They were afraid of me growing up, and then when they couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me, which made them stress out about what was wrong with me, which made them worry about my future . . .” I smile. “See where this vicious circle is going?”
They both nod.
“I do this”—I point down at the floor, at the space we’re in—“because I don’t want other kids to be locked in. Time displaced. I was seventeen for over three decades. When my mother died, nothing changed. The world knew about time-displaced kids then, but what was there to do? My father was even more afraid of what would happen to me without him, without the family. When he finally passed, and I got into a college with a new government identity, that’s when I started to grow older again.
“Jeff. Julia. Please.” I lean in a bit more. “We need to get to the heart of why Casey isn’t moving on. Three years is a long time. But thirty? It’s torture. We need to let our children grow. We need to let them experience the world. Part of being a parent is that letting-go stage. Of knowing, in some small, painful way, your child isn’t just yours anymore.”
Julia suddenly chokes back a little sob.
I look up at her.
“Julia?” I ask.
“It’s just . . .” She swallows. “My parents, they stressed so much how . . . how we’re supposed to enjoy our kids while they’re young. Every moment. Him?” She points at Jeff. “He works at home. I have to go into the office. Every single day. By the time I’m home, sometimes after dinner, Casey is getting ready for bed. Or just doesn’t want to talk about the day because why repeat what you said to your dad to your mom? You know how kids are.
“My parents? They spent every free waking moment with me. With my brothers. I have endless photo albums. I have a swath of pictures of Casey and Jeff on my tablet. All over my desk. Hanging in my house. But of me and Casey? Barely any.”
“Julia—” Jeff moves.
“It’s not fair!” Julia exclaims, glaring at Jeff. “I’m the mother. I’m supposed to have all of that. You get to stay at home and . . . and . . . code or whatever you—”
“Julia, you know I’m a—”
“I don’t care!” Julia shouts, laughing a little. “You don’t even understand what I do. As far as you’re concerned, I drive a bus or something.”
At this, Jeff laughs.
They both do.
I feel the tension release from the room.
“That’s . . . that’s our go-to,” Jeff says, blinking back tears as he looks at me. “When we’re having a hard time explaining what each other does. They drive a bus. She’s a CEO at a tech company up in Boston, though, Fussner Dynamics.”
She smiles. “You do know what I do.”
They reach out to each other, holding hands on the couch.
It’s small, this moment. But most breakthroughs in therapy are. Like tiny cracks in a discarded clay pot, filled in like kintsugi later.
“So, what do we do now?” Jeff asks. “How do we get Casey unstuck in time? If . . . if Julia is afraid of not living up to the past and I’m scared of not coming through with the future . . . if the fault is with both of us . . .”
“Julia, Jeff. It’s no one’s fault,” I say, smiling. Julia’s eyes are glassy, and Jeff looks like he’s going to collapse into himself, and it warms my heart a little. “Every parent fears this. The pressure of the past and the terror of the future. We will meet again, and again and again if we have to, to work on these things together. Maybe individually. We’ll get unstuck together. One day you’ll notice little things. Maybe Casey doesn’t fit in his old shoes, or a stubborn baby tooth finally falls out.”
Jeff looks like he’s going to sob again, so I reach out and pat his hand.
“Then you’ll know, and we probably won’t see each other again.”
I lean back and plug my intercom in.
“Dr. Ambrose?” I hear Suzanne chime in. “Are you there? The light just went back on—”
“It’s fine, Ms. Colbert. We’re just wrapping up.”
Julia and Jeff look surprised.
“Let’s schedule some time next week to unpack all of this. In person, or we can do a video conference. It’ll help you, and it’ll help Casey.”
I glance up at the wall.
“We’ve made great progress. But that’s our time.”
I watch as the couple gets ready to leave, checking their pockets, smoothing out their shirts. Jeff shakes my hand and Julia gives me a nod with a little smile.
It’s easy to lose track of time, when digging into big feelings. The past. The future. Into what hurts us, into what we fear. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, from this practice and from my life, is that it’s okay to let go. To watch it rush by like a landscape in a roaring train.
We can’t expect time, or our children, to wait for us to be ready.
You have to let them go.
#
Thank you for joining our journey this week.
Eric Smith is a literary agent and author of over a dozen books for young readers. His most recent novel, With or Without You, a rom-com about two teens working in rival cheesesteak trucks, published in 2023 and was a Junior Library Guild selection. His debut sci-fi novel for children, The Astronautics, will be out in 2027 with Chronicle Books. He lives in Philadelphia with his wife and son, who he hopes will stay seven years old forever.
“That’s Our Time,” © Eric Smith, 2025.
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Fascinating concept!