Now that I took my time to calm myself and digest what happened - took a nice cup of warm herbal tea, worked on my story, although not as much as I wanted - I think I can tell you the truth.

You know, I wanted to slap you.

Like, very hard in the face in that old school 'get a grip on yourself, swallow it up and keep going' way that today sensible people like you and me abhor.

I deliberately ignored your child - who was pretty freaked out, but had the sense to scream for help like a slaughtered pig (I mean, Hubby thought it was rape!) - and came to you.

At first, your incoherent words mislead me.

I sincerely thought you were miscarrying and, having myself went through it twice; I did what I wished people would have done with me in those occurrences.

I took you in my arms, hushing soothingly in your ear, running my fingers through your hair.

And slowly, the pieces went in their respective place and I understood was was going on.

It was the condescending manner in him and that I initially mistook for 'cold-headedness in emergency' I appreciate so much.

It was your degrading words about yourself and what happened.

I really wanted to slap you and tell you that I too indulged in self-harm and nearly killed myself, that too many go through that for the most disparate reasons - may it be a broken heart or the fear our shoulders aren't strong enough to face the hurdles Life throws in our faces.

I really wanted to slap you and tell you what a coward you were. And yes, maybe you were right and you were serving your ex what he wanted on a silver platter - I ignore the legal subtlety of such situation.

However, I got a grip on myself and kept you in my arms, murmuring soothing words into your ear and running my fingers through your hair.

You told me what a bad mother you were - for harming yourself - for driving your child to school. How you didn't want to scare your child like that - how I should forsake you and go back in my flat.

And I really wanted to slap you and tell you that no mother is perfect - that at least, you harmed yourself, not your child - that I have no car to drive my sons to school (no, wait, I did tell you that, but still...) - that yes, I really should go back home and work on my story as planned.

However, I got a grip on myself and kept you in my arms, murmuring soothing words into your ear and running my fingers through your hair.

Life is a bed of roses, dear neighbour of mine. Roses with razor-sharp thorns that make us bleed in hidden ways.

We meet each other in our condo's staircase in the morning  in the afternoon, but you have no idea of what goes behind my door.

About our struggles, of how inept I feel every single damn time I fall into my original family's habits - the ones I do my best to conquer, but most of the times I lose. About how I wish to have the Elder Wand or a Genie in the Lamp, so that with a flick of my wrist or the mere expressing of a wish, all our problems would be solved.

And yes, there are many a time I feel like things would be better if only I was gone.

But you know what? It's cowardy and a stupid illusion, because we would leave our precious ones behind.