“My Husband Doesn’t Want You Here.” My Daughter Said It Behind a Wall of White Roses

to my chest.

I needed help. Real help.

Susan Matthews’s office was in a modest brick building downtown. I sat in the waiting room for exactly five minutes before she greeted me—a woman in her early sixties with gray hair pulled back in a practical bun and eyes that had seen too much human pain to be easily shocked.

“Joyce,” she said, extending her hand.continue reading …