He approached Thursday, the day he would see Mimi at the support group, with both trepidation and giddiness. He’d hoped she’d had enough space. He’d missed her, her bright smile, her vibrant eyes, her soft voice. The morning dragged by. By lunchtime he’d already dealt with two seriously ill patients he’d had to commit to the psych ward and his parents, who had nixed every idea he’d put forth during the board meeting. They questioned using grant money to fund the support group. He’d invited them to the session tonight so they could see firsthand the rapport he’d built with his patients and hopefully be convinced of the worthiness of the project. His last patient of the day had finally shown up. She wanted marriage counseling. Considering his own predicament, he wasn’t sure he felt qualified to give it. “Our marriage fell apart during my first pregnancy.” Thirty-five-year-old Doreen Scott leaned back in the leather recliner. “I was sick at first and pretty emotional.”
