Her eyes flicked to my sketchbook. “You draw.”
“I do a lot of things,” I replied.
A small smile pulled at her mouth.
She walked to the chair and sat down across from me like we were two women meeting for coffee instead of sitting in a detox suite.
She studied me quietly.
“You look like someone who’s been through too much, too young,” she said.
I leaned back slightly. “That’s why you came?”
“I came to see you myself,” she said. “And because I understand forced situations.”
I stiffened.
She kept going.
“I know what it feels like to be pushed into something you didn’t choose.”
I watched her closely.
Tone steady.
Eye contact direct.
No manipulation in the body language.
Interesting.
“You think I’m gonna sit here and smile through this?” I asked.
“No, and that’s a good thing,” she replied, sounding sure.
That caught me off guard.
She leaned forward slightly, hands resting together.
“I’m not here to judge your addiction,” she said.
I huffed. “How generous.”
“I’m serious,” she said calmly. “I understand why people run from their family or marriage. Sometimes destroying yourself feels easier than letting someone else do it.”
That line landed deeper than I expected.
“I feel like I got thrown in a shark tank.”
She held my gaze.
“You’re not being thrown to sharks.”
I scoffed. “That’s exactly what this feels like.”
Her voice sharpened slightly.
“No. Sharks attack because they’re hungry. My son doesn’t devour broken women. He rebuilds them.”
