I C A N ’T H E L P Y O U
I HADN"T CRIED one drop. I had been too angry to feel sad. I
don’t know if I couldn’t hold back any longer or if I just felt safe
enough with Meredith, but the minute she motioned me into her
office, tears streamed.
I sat in the armchair next to the empty loveseat. Meredith, in a
crisp navy dress and perfectly sculpted bob, sat erect on her platform
rocker. She opened a manila folder, flipped her tablet to a
clean page, and clicked her pen.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“He’s at it again.” I pulled a tissue from the box on the side table
next to me and dabbed at my eyes.
“How many times has he done this?”
“Why is his behavior acceptable to you?”
I bowed my head. “It’s not.”
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I don’t know, a miracle?” I forced a smile as my eyes rose to
Meredith did not smile back. She stood, pulled her arms across
her chest, and clutched my file. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you if
you want him back.”
Did my therapist just fire me? “What?”
“I cannot help you if you want him back.”
Stunned, I rose and made my way out the door.
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