Taylor
2:30 p.m.
“Dr. Wilson will see you now," the middle-aged, red-haired receptionist interrupts my perusal of a random waiting room magazine. Abandoning the tattered tabloid, I rise to enter the interior office of Dr. Wilson, Kennedy's beloved therapist.
I remind myself to keep an open mind. I need to work through my issues with men, and I need to discuss issues with the surrogacy that I can't share with Kennedy or Jackson. Nervously, I will myself to place one foot in front of the other.
I find Dr. Wilson seated behind an imposing, dark-wooden desk. She rises, adjusts her pencil skirt, and walks towards me, extending her right hand.
“Taylor," she greets with a firm handshake. “I'm Dr. Wilson." She motions for me to take a seat. “You can call me Greta."
I believe she is already t
