The jelly beans are already lined up on Olympia’s desk when I walk into her office the next morning. “Welcome,” Olympia says, smiling up at me. I’m relieved to see she’s not wearing a Halloween costume. I don’t think I could take our meeting seriously if she was dressed like Darth Vader or something.

I plop down in the blue easy chair and give Olympia a quick update on how Mom’s doing. Then I choose my first bean: marshmallow. “I don’t get why my mom likes to clean so much,” I say, popping the jelly bean in my mouth. “Cleaning’s not fun.”

“True,” Olympia says, adjusting a silver bangle. “But your mom doesn’t clean because she enjoys it, Kat. It’s a compulsion. A symptom of her OCD.”

Thanks to my Google search, I know what a compulsion is. It’s when your brain tells you to do something, whether you want to do it or not. The thing is, I’m not sure how this relates to Mom. I ask Olympia to explain to it me.

“Of course.” Olympia leans forward on her elbows. “A person with OCD is bombarded with unwanted thoughts. To stop these thoughts, certain routines, or ‘rituals,’ must be performed, like double-checking the locks, repeating certain words, tapping, washing your hands—”

“My mom does that,” I say. “When she’s not cleaning, that is.”

“That must be hard to live with,” Olympia says. “And tough to watch.”

“I guess,” I say.

Olympia eyes me carefully. “Your mom’s rituals affect you too, you know. Even if it’s only indirectly.”

“Yeah, well…” I look at the clock opposite the bookshelf. “I probably shouldn’t miss all of homeroom,” I say, getting up from the chair, “so thanks for—”

“Please sit down, Kat.” Olympia steps away from her desk and plops down on the floor in front of me. She crisscrosses her legs like a yogi. “Talking about feelings isn’t easy, but we should try to continue for a bit. Remember, you’ve been bottling up stuff for quite some time and now you’re dealing with the consequences. You have every right to feel scared.”

I nod, my eyes blurry with tears. I am scared. Scared that Mom won’t get better, and scared of what will happen to me if she doesn’t. I tell this to Olympia.

Olympia’s face softens. “You can’t predict the future, Kat, but you’ve got your family to help you through this. And you’ve got me. Don’t forget that.” She smiles and gets up from the floor. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Her words hit me like a stun gun. I’ve never thought of myself as strong before. I picture myself as a strongman in the circus, the old-fashioned kind, with thick, muscly legs and a twisty mustache, hoisting a pair of barbells high overhead. And it’s that superhuman strength that gives me the courage to take the next jelly bean and ask the question that’s been eating at me for weeks. I look Olympia straight in the eye. “Will I get OCD too?”

Olympia doesn’t flinch or even look surprised. “I wish I had a clear-cut answer for you, Kat, but I don’t. OCD has a genetic component, which means it tends to run in families. But that doesn’t mean you’ll get it. It’s just a possibility.”

This is not what I wanted to hear. It’s not bad news exactly, but it isn’t good news either. Olympia must sense my worry, because she adds: “It couldn’t hurt to keep an eye on things, though—and to check in with a therapist, if you feel like it.”

“My dad wants me to do that. My mom too.”

“That’s good,” Olympia says. “Is that something you want to do?”

I shrug. For now, sharing jelly beans with Olympia feels like enough.

As I’m getting up to leave, Olympia goes over to the bookshelf and takes out a thick hardcover. She places it in my hands. “It’s for you,” she says. “I think it may help.”

When I look at the title, I can understand why. The book is called When Parents Aren’t Perfect: Loving a Family Member with Anxiety and Other Mental Health Issues. Then I read the name of the author: Olympia Rabinowitz, PhD. I look up, surprised. “You wrote this?”

Olympia smiles. “I did.”

“That’s so cool.” I clutch the book to my chest. I know I should say more, but I’m speechless. Olympia wrote a book. For kids like me.

“I think you’re ready for this,” Olympia tells me.

“I am,” I say. And at that moment, I know it’s true.