The marriage counselor sat behind a marred, wooden desk and peered through the computer screen at my husband, Charles, and me. He looked to be in his late 60s to early 70s, medium build, dark-hair, glasses perched low on his nose, otherwise nondescript except for a penetrating gaze that read “don’t B.S. me.”
He leaned forward and said: “What brings you here today?”
“Here” was the makeshift office in the second bedroom of our downtown Baltimore condo on a frigid January morning. Charles and I scrunched our chairs closer together so that both of our faces appeared on the monitor.
Continue reading Laura’s article in the Baltimore Sun here.