Living With the Choices We Make (Domestic Violence / Abuse) ✔️

11 - Forgiving

This chapter is dedicated to my follower linahanson whose comments have been most helpful and appreciated to give some of my writing that extra edge.  Thanks and I am looking forward to more.                                                         

11 - Forgiving  

"Tell me, Doc, how old is Mitch?" I ask, twirling the spoon with the ice cream around in my mouth.

He goes rigid. "Mitch?"

"Yes." I grin. "Isn't that the name of your son?"

He hesitates, his eyes on the empty pizza boxes in front of him like they could help him answering my question. I have to admit, I feasted. He allowed me to have nine slices, loaded with peperoni and ham, and some veggies. I hadn't enjoyed food that much in ages.

"I don't feel comfortable discussing my personal life with a client," he says.

I chuckle. He is such a hypocrite. How can he expect for me to pour out the depth of my soul when he is not willing to divulge the most basic information he would probably share with a stranger on a bus?

"Technically, I am not even your client," I point out. "You were assigned by the court." When he still doesn't respond, I push ahead. "Come on, Doc, just this one question."

He sighs. "Mitch is four."

"See–it wasn't that hard." My hand instinctively strokes over my belly.

His gaze follows my action. "How far along are you?"

Oh–he must have taken a quick peak at my medical file. "Five months."

"Did they tell you if it's a boy or a girl?

I nod. "I had a few ultrasounds. It's a little boy."

"Any idea on a name yet?"

Now this is pretty personal and has no bearing on my case, but I want to be nice since he told me about Mitch. "I don't think I want to name the baby. I have decided to give him up for adoption. It'll be better if his new parents will choose how they want to call their son."

I scoop another portion of ice cream in my mouth, letting it melt on my tongue. It is so delicious. Enjoying sweets like this is something I have missed since being locked up. I have always had a sweet tooth.

"Doesn't your father want to raise his grandson?"

Ouch, that's below the belt. I am trying to stay calm, not wanting to recall the fight I had with my dad about the pregnancy. "Yes, but I decided against it. The jail supervisor told me that they'll take the baby away as soon as he is born–it's prison policy. I don't even know when I'll get out and I don't want to burden my dad to raise another baby by himself."

"That must've been a tough decision."

I feel a lump building in my throat. He has no idea. I keep my cool, treating myself to another spoonful. He hasn't touched his at all.

"Don't you want your ice cream?"

He pads his stomach. "I could benefit from losing some weight. Too much work and too little exercise."

My smile is thin. He looks a little on the heavy side and his wife may leave him one day if he is never home and blows up like a balloon. He could lose Mitch. It's not a risk I would take.

"So did they offer you a deal?" he asks next.

"Uhum, twenty-five years." My eyes graze his ice cream container. Maybe I should ask if I could have it before it goes to waste. "I would be able for parole after twelve, but on a murder conviction, they usually deny the first few petitions. I would likely be out in twenty."