“You are from a broken home.” Like Hell I am!

Shortly after the divorce bomb was dropped on Abby and me, I was called into the Dean Of Girls office.  Her name was Miss Binney and she was what was commonly referred to as an old maid.  All I knew for sure was that she had a mean disposition and it was best to steer clear of her.

Divorce Cakes a_005

Divorce Cakes a_005 (Photo credit: DrJohnBullas)

Miss Binney began with a short soliloquy about the tragedy bestowed upon the children from broken homes and this was no doubt why my grades had gone down.  She continued as if on a stage, waltzing around her office for flair.  Never did she ask how she could help or if I needed anything.  She just rambled on and on about the horribleness of my broken home.

I did not take kindly to such criticism.  And I especially found the term “broken home” offensive.  Yes, my parents were getting a divorce, but I knew that no one was divorcing me or Abby.

I waited for her to finish her one-woman show so I could speak.  I reminded her that I did not live in a broken home and that while it may have been a bit cracked, it was not broken.  Miss Binney did not know what to say.  She ushered me out of her office with a quick good-bye and our paths never crossed again.

I think she was too busy calling parents about their children’s indiscretions.  You know, serious transgressions such as wearing a charm bracelet with a little music box that distracted the teachers or other important educational issues.  Counselor, adviser she was not.  Frustrated with her choice of occupations, absolutely!  But she will never forget that I am not from a broken home!

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