Empowered
The girl needed help. She knew that, now. Which is why she was here. The waiting room. All so normal, exactly what she expected for a mental health counselor’s office. Ecru walls, long blue sofas and firm orange armchairs, ferns and philodendrons and rhododendrons. Drowsy clove scent in the air. The short-haired middle-aged white slightly dumpy (don’t fat-shame her don’t age-shame her) receptionist who had welcomed her in with professional courtesy but certainly hiding suspicions. Right?...