My name’s Helena. Helena, like the patron saint of difficult marriages. So it’s not surprising to anyone that I’ve ended up working as a counsellor.
If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that good marriage are about honesty, trust and, above all else, communication.
So it was a shock one afternoon when I walked into my office to find my husband sitting there.
‘I need counseling,’ he said.
‘Haha, very funny. Have you lost your key?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m expecting a client,’
I said, glancing at the clock. ‘Yep, that’s me. I could hardly use my own name.’
‘Why on earth would you do that, Robert? We can talk any time.’
He looked at me closely, a sad look in his eyes. ‘But we only talk about other people’s problems,’ he said. ‘I thought if I booked an appointment, we could talk about us for a change.’
I had 53 minutes before my next appointment. If Robert left now, I could shrink my paperwork mountain. ‘We can talk tonight, after dinner.’ I opened the door, but he didn’t move.
‘I’m not going, Helena. It’s now or never. I mean it.’
‘OK, fine,’ I said. I mean, there couldn’t be much of a problem or I’d have known about it. ‘What’s wrong?’
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March 24, 2020