ᴍʏ ᴍᴏᴍ ɪs ᴡʜᴏ? ✔︎

Mini Morgan

A/N - Holy cow, thanks to everyone who got this to 10K reads. This chapter is for you!

| Cody |

"So, Cody. Tell me why you're here."

I look at the 'qualified therapist' in front of me, a look of indignation crosses my face. Surely she should know why I'm here. I take my time observing her, as she studies me. Any other time I'd feel defensive but right now I'm pissed. I notice her two-piece pants suit, her jacket still buttoned up although she's seated. Her white blouse buttoned to the third button from the top, not in contrast to her black suit. She looks overly formal, overly expensive. She peers at me over the brim of her glasses, an eyebrow raised as she awaits my answer.

"My mom made me." Is my answer, and I watch as she scribbles down in her leatherbacked notepad. I know my mom sent me here to get help, to be open and talk about everything, but I still can't help but be defensive with my answers. I don't trust a lot of people, this woman included. Just because my mom is paying her to listen to my problems, doesn't mean she cares. As far as I'm concerned - I'm just a paycheck to her.

"Why are you really here, Cody?"

Great, she's one of those types. You know, when you answer her and she asks what that means to you, even though you don't have a fucking clue.

I inhale sharply as I close my eyes momentarily, before I exhale. I open my eyes, looking to the ceiling, then to the bookcase which is filled with psychology books, and books on mental health. I see her diplomas hanging proudly on her wall behind her desk, void of any personal items, not even a single framed photograph to be seen.

"I guess," I start before I pause, not really sure how much I feel comfortable divulging to this stranger. "It's because of my past. My nightmares, flashbacks, drinking, stuff like that." I stop myself when I realize I've basically told her everything, even if it is vague.

"What do you mean by 'stuff like that'? Is there anything else you're doing that you shouldn't be?"

"Depends who you ask, and their definition of 'shouldn't be'." I answer, not taking my eyes off of the therapist, silently challenging her and I'm surprised when I see her smirk.

"Let's start from the beginning, shall we?"

We do. Once I begin to open up to her, I cant stop the dam. My brain screaming at me to stop talking, to stop sharing facts about myself, about my family and about my past, to this woman that I don't even know. I don't even realize I'm crying until she pushes a box of tissues towards me from her end of the small coffee table. I didn't want to cry, knowing my mom is waiting outside and knowing the first thing she'll ask me is if I'm okay.

"Okay, I can see that this has obvious taken it's toll on you. I can also see you're extremely anxious-"

"What? How?" I cut her off, feeling defensive once again.

"Your leg hasn't stopped bouncing since you started telling me why you're here. You're refusing to hold eye contact, you continue to look at the door and the clock on the wall. You're scratching your hand, I can see you've broken the skin." She lists, ending by motioning to my hand and I look down to see that she's right, and I hadn't even noticed.

"Oh."

"About the drinking. How often is it? And please remember, I'm not here to judge you."

"It was everyday"

"Was?" She asks, sounding skeptical. So much for no judgement.

"Yes, was. My friend caught me, and as part of a deal I promised not to drink if she didn't tell my mom...but she found out anyway after I got hurt in my State game." I answer honestly, and she nods along.