Robyn
I took the rather rickety elevator up to the third floor of the old, converted industrial building. It was used to make weight scales at the turn of the nineteenth century. It was now conference centers, dance studios, small business start-ups and offices.
I had cruised the internet to find all the therapists in Rutberg, and then I further narrowed that down to only women providers. I wasn't about to talk to a man about the intimate details of my life. Of the six female names that remained, there was only one that caught my eye. Arianna Hanniford, a psychologist specializing in art therapy.
Calling and setting up an appointment had been easy. Luckily, one of her clients had just moved away, so she had an immediate opening and was able to fit me in.
But actually stepping in
