The mediation is two hours away. Something heavy is crushing my lungs, I sit at my desk but my brain freezes and my guts twist with dread. Do I really have to do this? To be looked at with anger, confusion and vague disgust by the man who used to shine love on me? To be dragged through the rubble of what I saw as the most precious construction in my life? To feel blamed because sheer pain did sometimes cloud my judgement? To feel blamed for everything I am?
I look up and I see the daisies. They have sat on my desk since Thursday, an anonymous gift carefully bunched-up and watered in an improvised vase. I am intrigued, but do not even want to know who put them there. The mere fact that someone did this thoughtful little thing just for me, is like lighting a match in the deep cold darkness.