Diary of a Mad First Lady by Dishan Washington

gave me a call.” She paused. “I really want to help.”
    “I’ll do that, Daphne.”
    She leaned over and gave me a hug. I got an eerie feeling on the inside, but I ignored it and embraced her as well.
    We both stood and I walked her to the door.
    “Thanks for meeting with me,” she said.
    “The pleasure has been all mine.” I opened the door. “Have a good afternoon.”
    “You do the same, First Lady.”
    She walked out the door and I stood staring at her.
    I couldn’t help but wonder who Daphne Carlton really was. And only time would tell.

Chapter Eleven
    Michelle
     
     
    That day in the office was one of the few light moments Daphne and I shared. It, among others, was a moment I would later live to regret. She’d somehow deceived me into believing that she was concerned about my best interests, when all of the time she’d been thinking only of herself.
    As I drove downtown, I tried to temporarily escape my thoughts of Daphne, and not let any thoughts of Dawn appear. It was a crisp evening, and the stars were peeking delicately out of the black silk of the sky. The beautiful scene created a peaceful calm in my spirit as I drove to my weekly meeting. The meeting was a gathering of the minds; specifically, the minds of other first ladies.
    A few of us got together and decided that it was in the best interests of our sometimes demanding congregations and even more demanding husbands that we take one night a week and vent to each other the frustration that came along with this much-desired-by-women-who-didn’t-know-any-better position. Our husbands were affluent and highly respected men in the community, and it would not look too good if each of their wives slowly lost their minds. So, our group met for the purpose of supporting each other, because we all understood pointedly what the other was going through. Therefore, the men never complained about our weekly gathering at Houston’s.
    The first ladies who had children left their husbands to fend for themselves at precisely 6:30 P . M . every single Thursday night. Some left even earlier than that, depending on their drive time. But none of us ever missed a meeting. I didn’t have kids yet, so my desire to escape wasn’t fueled by the need to have an adult conversation instead of one that included Sponge-Bob and popsicles. My driving force was to get around a group of women who had no expectations of me, and who knew all too well the challenges I faced from day to day.
    I drove into the parking lot of Houston’s just off Peachtree, silently wishing that they had a valet. The parking lot was already full, and I knew that I would have to walk a short distance from my parking space to the door.
    It was getting harder by the day to do things that I did pre-pregnancy with little to no effort. A few months ago, I would have appreciated the walk, but tonight, my feet were swollen and I was almost out of breath at the very idea of walking.
    I managed to make it inside the restaurant without collapsing in fatigue.
    I glanced around, hoping to get a glimpse of the other ladies, but apparently I was the first one to arrive. I looked down at my watch and noticed that I was a few minutes early. I stepped to the hostess’ station and gave her the information she needed to secure our table, and went to sit on the bricks they referred to as the waiting area. Once again, I noticed a pre-pregnancy vice. Before tonight, I never paid attention to how hard the bricks were, but tonight my butt was already starting to become numb and my back was sending pain signals straight to the numbness, creating an uncomfortable mixture of annoyance and aggravation.
    Just as the hostess was motioning to me that the table was ready, all five of the first ladies, my girls, were walking in at the same time. Each of them was clad in outfits to kill, diamonds that would catch the attention of anybody, and bright, confident smiles that would intimidate the sun. They strutted over to me and did