**Diary Entry**
I never thought the day would come when my own son would bring a psychiatrist to our doorstep, hoping to have me declared unfitonly to remain blissfully unaware that the doctor was not just any man, but his father. My ex-husband. The man who vanished from my life decades ago.
“Mum, open up. Its me. And Im not alone.”
Kierans voice was uncharacteristically firm, almost formal. I set my book aside and made my way to the front door, smoothing my hair as I went. A knot of unease had already settled deep in my chest.
There he stood, my son, and behind hima tall man in a tailored overcoat. The stranger carried an expensive leather briefcase and regarded me with a calm, assessing gaze, the sort reserved for objects one debates buying or discarding.
“Can we come in?” Kieran asked, not bothering with a smile.
He stepped inside as if he already owned the placeperhaps, in his mind, he did. The stranger followed.
“Mum, this is Dr. Edward Whitmore.” Kieran shrugged off his coat. “Hes a psychiatrist. We just want to talk. Im worried about you.”
The word *worried* sounded like a verdict. I studied this *Edward Whitmore*his temples streaked with grey, thin lips pressed together, weary eyes behind stylish glasses. And thensomething achingly familiar in the way he tilted his head slightly, studying me.
My heart lurched.
*Edward.*
Forty years had blurred his features, weathered him with time and a life I hadnt been part of. But it was him. The man Id once loved to madness and cast out with equal fury. Kierans father, who never knew he had a son.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Anna,” he said smoothly, the practised voice of a psychiatrist. Not a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Either he didnt rememberor he was pretending not to.
I nodded, my legs numb beneath me. The room narrowed to a single point: his composed, professional face.
My son had brought a man into our home to have me committed, to take my flatand that man was his own father.
“Lets go to the sitting room,” I said, my voice eerily steady.
Kieran launched into his rehearsed speech while the “doctor” surveyed the room. He spoke of my “unhealthy attachment to possessions,” my “refusal to face reality,” how the flat was too much for me alone.
“Emma and I want to help,” he said. “Well find you a cosy studio nearby. Youll be looked after, and with the money from the sale, youll want for nothing.”
He spoke as if I werent there. As if I were an old armchair, ready to be carted off.
Dr. Whitmore*Edward*listened, nodding occasionally. Then he turned to me.
“Mrs. Anna, do you often speak to your late husband?” His question hit like a punch to the gut.
Kieran looked away. So, hed told him. My habit of murmuring to old photographs, in his retelling, had become a symptom.
I shifted my gaze from my sons guilty face to his fathers impassive one. Cold fury replaced shock.
They both watched me, waiting. One with greedy impatience, the other with clinical detachment.
Fine. If they wanted a game, theyd get one.
“Yes,” I said, holding Edwards gaze. “Sometimes he even answers. Especially when we talk about betrayal.”
Not a muscle twitched in Edwards face. He simply made a note in his pad. That gesture spoke volumes. *Patient exhibits hostility. Projects guilt.* I could almost see the words in his neat, professional script.
“Mum, why would you say that?” Kieran sputtered. “Dr. Whitmore wants to help, and youre just”
“Help with what, son? Help free up property for you?”
Two emotions warred inside me: searing hurt and the urge to shake him, to scream, *Open your eyes! Look who youve brought here!* But I stayed silent. To reveal my hand now would mean losing.
“Thats not true!” His cheeks flushedthe only proof he still had a shred of decency. “Emma and I are concerned. Youre alone here, buried in your memories.”
Edward raised a hand. “Kieran, allow me.” He turned to me. “Mrs. Anna, what do you consider betrayal? Its a powerful emotion. Lets explore it.”
His studying gaze never wavered. I decided to test him.
“Betrayal comes in many forms, Doctor. Sometimes a man leaves for bread and never returns. And sometimes he comes back years later to take the last thing you have.”
I watched for a reaction. Nothing. Not even a flicker. Either his composure was ironclador he truly didnt remember. The latter was somehow worse.
“An interesting metaphor,” he mused. “So, you perceive your sons concern as an attempt to take something from you?”
This was an interrogation. Methodical, precise, boxing me into the diagnosis hed already decided on.
“Kieran,” I said, ignoring Edward, “take the doctor out. We need to talk alone.”
“No,” he snapped. “Well discuss this together. Dr. Whitmore is here as an impartial expert.”
*Impartial.* My ex-husband, whod never paid child support because he never knew he had a child.
The father Kieran had never met. The irony was so cruel I nearly laughed. But laughter, too, would be listed as a symptom.
“Fine,” I said, feigning surrender. Something inside me had hardened into ice. “If you insist on helping tell me your plan.”
Kieran brightened, mistaking my calm for compliance. He prattled about a studio on the outskirts, a concierge, “women your age” on benches.
I listened and studied Edward. And then I understood.
He didnt just fail to recognise mehe looked at me with the same mild disdain hed once reserved for everything beneath him: my love of plain cotton dresses, my paperbacks, my “provincial” sentimentality.
Hed run from it years ago. And now, fate had brought him back to deliver the final verdict. To label me “unwell” and sweep me out of sight.
“Ill think about it,” I said, rising. “Now, please leave. I need to rest.”
Kieran beamed. He thought hed won.
“Of course, Mum. Ill call tomorrow.”
They left. Edward threw me one last glancenothing but professional satisfaction.
I locked the door and watched from the window as they walked away. Kieran gesturing eagerly, Edwards hand on his shoulder. Father and son. How touching.
They drove off in his sleek car. And I remained. In my flat, which theyd already divided in their minds.
But theyd overlooked one thing. I wasnt just a sentimental old woman. I was a woman whod been betrayed once. I wouldnt allow it a second time.
The next morning, the phone rang at ten sharp. Kieran was chirpy, unbearably businesslike.
“Mum, how are you? Dr. Whitmore suggested a follow-upmore formal, with assessments. He can come by tomorrow.”
I stayed silent, fingering my grandmothers silver spoonthe last thing I had of her.
“Mum? Its just procedure. Emmas already picked out olive drapes for the lounge.”
*Click.*
Not a sounda feeling. Something inside me snapped.
*Drapes.*
They were choosing *drapes* for *my* flat. I wasnt even gone yet.
“Fine,” I said coldly. “Let him come.”
I hung up before he could cheer. Enough. Enough of being understanding, weak, convenient. Enough playing the victim in their little scheme. It was time to start mine.
First, I opened my laptop. *Psychiatrist Dr. Edward Whitmore.*
The internet knew everything. There he wasmy Edward. Successful. Owner of *Harmony Mind Clinic*. Published. A TV expert.
In photos, he smiled with polished confidence.
I booked an appointment under my maiden name*Anna Cross*. The receptionist offered a slot the next morning. How fortunate.
That evening, I sifted through old boxes. I wasnt hunting for proof. I was hunting for *me*the twenty-year-old girl hed left pregnant because she “didnt fit his ambitions.” The girl whod survived, raised a son, given him everything.
And now that son had brought his “successful” father to help discard his “problematic” mother.
The next morning, I dressed carefullya tailored trouser suit I hadnt worn in years. My hair styled, makeup subtle. The mirror showed not a frightened woman, but a general before battle.
*Harmony Mind Clinic* smelled of expensive cologne and sterility. I was ushered into his officespacious, with leather furnishings and panoramic windows.
Edward glanced up
