The waiting room

As I drive towards the center of the city I feel a little faint, sick and not sure if my stomach will last the hour and a half of mediation in store. I try to calm myself, at least I wasn't loosing the children completely, how would that feel? Unimaginable.

I was flustered, couldn't decide where to park, parked in one car park and then realised I was too wobbly to walk the distance, so drove to a closer one which cost a fortune!

Once walking I felt a little better. I was early and didn't want to sit and watch the clock for 15 minutes especially if husband and I were in the same room. Luckily I was first and was directed towards the waiting room. I staked my claim on one chair, putting my bag on the one next to me, as if on public transport. I waited, book in hand but not taking in the words on the page.

Within minutes I heard someone else coming up in the lift. He was ushered to a seat further along the row. A brief nod of acknowledgement was all that passed between us. We sat there, two strangers in a small room, waiting to discuss our dearest children.

I wasn't sad, far too much water under the bridge for that, but it was curious. Sixteen years ago we'd not quite met, and here we were strangers again, but with two precious things in common which we were willing to fight tooth and nail for . . . . .