“When are they going to drain that damn pool?” This was the question my exasperated counselor asked me. He was worn thin from the constant dialogue on a favorite subject, my soon-to-be estranged husband’s daily outings to our country club swimming pool. My charming counselor ran a children’s behavioral health clinic, the most prominent in the area. He rarely took on new clients as he was busy running the clinic and traveling the speaking circuit for his many published books. But he took me on, even though I wasn’t a child. I just had a husband who was acting like one. I loved my hour slot of his engaging time. My silent goal was to win him over with my wit. I couldn’t win over my own husband, so I felt it a worthy challenge. I savored the attention, something I was severely deprived. Typically, my counselor found me warm and funny. I was sure I saw this his cool brown eyes. But on this particular day I saw something different. My confidant, a hands
I have a lovely friend who tells a lovely story about her mom. The irony is that someone else now tells this same story but has replaced the primary character from my friend to herself. She isn't lying. She believes her version to be true. That's what happens when we repeat stories. Their fabric often changes through the re-telling. The stories I write here may be true or they may not. Consider this blog historical fiction. I write them soley to share the enjoyment they gave me.