Sacrifices of Joy by Leslie J. Sherrod

number to call.” He passed me a card for a mental health crisis hotline. I recognized it immediately because it was the same card I gave to some of my clients.
    I wanted to tell him that I was not having a mental meltdown. I was in my right mind and not teetering on the edge of an emotional collapse.
    I wanted to tell him all of that, but I was beginning to question it myself.
    â€œThanks,” was all I said as I accepted the card and then I watched him pull away. I looked at the card and then slipped it into my workbag next to a pile of brochures detailing mental health resources. I kept them handy to pass along to clients.
    Once again, I’d overreacted. There’s always a logical explanation for everything. Maybe the officer was right. As unlikely as it seemed, perhaps Laz had told Yvette or my mom that he was taking care of me, and one of the two had picked up my car to save me the hassle of trying to figure out how to get it back home. I’d given the extra key to my mom when I’d bought my car earlier in the year. I’d call to confirm and thank them later.
    But how would they have known where my car was parked? And why bring it back in the middle of the night without telling me?
    Admittedly, nothing about this version of possible events made sense, but I was determined not to jump to extreme conclusions. I didn’t need to call anyone else right then. I would keep my crazy to myself, now feeling embarrassed about the entire exchange with the police officer.
    And I also needed to start my workday. Something in my life had to be normal. I’d go to the post office another time, I decided, throwing the joy bag in the back seat. Abigail and company were not expecting anything from me anyway.
    Perhaps regaining peace in my life was not going to be as easy as putting a package in the mail.
    I knew that. I was simply desperate for a normalcy that continued to evade me.

Chapter 14
    â€œThere you are.” My executive assistant/receptionist/ office manager Darci Dudley smiled as I entered my office suite. “You have some new messages, some old messages, and a bunch of other odds and ends I’m taking care of.”
    â€œThanks, Darci. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I grinned, feeling more confident that the day was finally heading in the right, and mundane, direction.
    In the three years since I’d opened The Whole Soul Center, the practice had grown from a small single office space with a miniature waiting room in Rosedale in which I sat in by myself, to a four-office suite complete with a full-sized front desk and chart room. I’d hired three other therapists who worked varying hours to keep the clinic open from early morning to late evening, occasional Saturday mornings, too. The arrangement worked well for me; I was able to build more visibility for my center and the financial payoff was more than what I’d anticipated.
    Darci was a young woman in her mid-twenties who was working her way through college to become a nurse. A single mother to three-year-old twins, I understood her plight and allowed her to make the job’s days and hours fit her schedule when I first offered her the position. Somehow, she managed to maintain full-time hours at my office while continuing her studies. This brunette, green-eyed beauty had been a godsend since she’d responded to my job listing on Craigslist last year. Her authenticity and eagerness to help proved that not everyone in this country was hung up on race and cultural differences. From the suburban soccer moms to the foster children to the court-mandated parolees who made up my clinic’s diverse clientele, Darci, at the front desk, genuinely accepted and welcomed all of the people who came through the door.
    â€œHope you had a great weekend!” Darci, ever the optimist, grinned at me as she shuffled through some papers on her desk.
    â€œYes.” I smiled back, not wanting to disappoint.