My husband and I joke on the elevator ride up to the doctor’s office and make fun of the small cramped waiting room, I never mentioned the dreadful lump in my stomach. He normally brings me so much comfort but today I wish he wasn’t there. This visit was just for an evaluation for my son and his school. Nothing major. I knew though – I knew that it would all snow ball towards me, the mother - and that other man that has over time lost all identity to me, the father.

We shake hands. We share small talk. We sit.

“So tell me about the relationship between you and his father.” – Normally I answer that question with a quick “we are no longer together.” Making sure that the period at the end of that statement is unmovable. People nod as if to understand and wade on to another topics all together. Oh, but this won’t work today..

I notice how whenever I’m put in a situation to tell this story, I short hand, summarize – the almighty cliff note. Its rolls out my mouth so easily. Domestic Abuse. My husband says I never look uncomfortable, that I always seem at ease. Brush fire travels up and down my spine. I speak technically, I know the lingo. Case report numbers, 911 calls, court dates. No emotion.

The doctor scribbles on her note pad. I imagine it says something along the lines of – pathetic. My husband sits in a chair that is slightly behind me. It’s for the better; I would hate to see the pity that might show in his eyes. I would hate for him to see a victim in me…

An hour later our time is up and I leave this doctor with a underdeveloped picture of my insides.