Marcia’s lawyer suggested mediation.
I agreed once.
No Theo.
Neutral office.
She looked immaculate.
Of course.
Her first sentence:
“I never wanted you harmed.”
I answered:
“Then why did you keep waking me?”
She flinched.
“I thought movement would help.”
“Doctor?”
“No.”
“Training?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Experience.”
Her experience.
She told me about Colin’s birth.
Forty-eight hours of labor.
C-section? No. Let’s keep vaginal.
Long labor.
Significant tearing.
Her husband went back to work.
Her mother-in-law arrived.
Dinner.
Laundry.
Visitors.
Marcia had cried in the pantry while holding Colin.
“What happened when you asked to rest?” I asked.
“She told me wives do not disappear because babies arrive.”
There.
“Did that help you?”
Marcia looked away.
“I survived.”
Not the same question.
“Did you deserve it?”
Silence.
Then:
“That was how families worked.”
“Did you like it?”
“No.”
“Then why me?”
Her eyes filled.
“Because I thought hating it was part of becoming strong.”
That was one of the saddest things I had ever heard.
Not an excuse.
A mechanism.
Pain turned into credential.
She had survived without help.
Therefore help was weakness.
If my recovery looked easier, perhaps hers had been unnecessarily cruel.
That truth was harder than repeating the cruelty.
