My son brought a psychiatrist to our house to have me declared mentally unfitbut he didnt know the doctor was my ex-husband. His father.
*Mum, open up. Its me. And Im not alone.*
Olivers voice through the door was oddly stiff, almost formal. I set my book aside and walked to the hallway, smoothing my hair as I went.
A knot of dread had already settled in my chest.
There he stood on the doorstep, with a tall man in a sharp overcoat behind him. The stranger carried an expensive leather briefcase and studied me with a calm, assessing gazethe kind reserved for objects youre either buying or throwing away.
*Can we come in?* Oliver asked, not bothering to smile.
He stepped inside like he owned the placewhich, I suppose, he already thought he did. The stranger followed.
*This is Dr. Edward Whitmore,* Oliver said, shrugging off his jacket. *Hes a psychiatrist. We just want to talk. Im worried about you.*
The word *worried* sounded like a verdict. I studied this *Edward Whitmore.*
Silver at his temples, thin pressed lips, tired eyes behind stylish glasses. And something achingly familiar in the way he tilted his head slightly, watching me.
My heart somersaulted.
*Edward.*
Forty years had eroded his features, layered them with age and a life I didnt know. But it was him.
The man Id once loved to madnessand thrown out with equal fury. Olivers father, whod never known he had a son.
*Good afternoon, Mrs. Hughes,* he said in that smooth, professional tone psychiatrists perfect. Not a flicker of recognition. Or a very good act.
I nodded, my legs numb. The world narrowed to his composed, clinical face.
Oliver had brought a man to lock me away and take my homeand that man was his own father.
*Lets go to the sitting room,* I said, my voice eerily steady.
Oliver launched into his rehearsed speech while *Dr. Whitmore* surveyed the room.
He spoke of my *unhealthy attachment to possessions,* my *refusal to accept reality,* how *too much space* was bad for me. *Emily and I want to help,* he insisted. *Well buy you a cosy flat near us. Youll be looked after. The rest of the money will keep you comfortable.*
He spoke as if I werent there. As if I were an old cupboard, ready for the skip.
Edward*Dr. Whitmore*nodded along before turning to me.
*Mrs. Hughes, do you often speak to your late husband?* The question hit like a gut punch.
Oliver looked down. So *thats* what hed told him. My habit of murmuring to old photos, twisted into symptoms.
I shifted my gaze from Olivers guilty face to Edwards impassive one. Cold fury replaced shock.
They both watched, waiting. One greedy, one clinical.
Fine. They wanted a game? Theyd get one.
*Yes,* I said, locking eyes with Edward. *Sometimes he answers. Especially when we talk about betrayal.*
Not a twitch. Just a note in his pad.
I could almost read it: *Patient exhibits aggression. Projects guilt.*
*Mum, why would you say that?* Oliver flushed. *Dr. Whitmores here to help.*
*Help with what, Oliver? Freeing up property?*
Two urges warred in me: the need to shake him, to scream *Look who you brought!* But I stayed silent. Showing my hand now meant losing.
*Thats not* His cheeks reddenedthe only proof he still had a conscience.
Edward raised a hand. *Oliver, let me. Mrs. Hughes, what do you consider betrayal?*
I decided to test him.
*Betrayal comes in many forms, Doctor. Sometimes a man leaves for work and never returns. And sometimes he returns decades later to take what little you have left.*
Edwards expression didnt change. Iron controlor genuine oblivion. The latter was worse.
*Interesting metaphor,* he mused. *Do you see your sons concern as an attempt to take from you?*
A trap. Every word twisted to fit his diagnosis.
*Oliver,* I said, ignoring him, *give us a moment alone.*
*No.* His voice hardened. *We do this together. Dr. Whitmore stays.*
*Independent expert,* I echoed flatly. My ex-husband, whod never paid child support.
The irony was vicious.
I played along, listening as Oliver gushed about studio flats and *nice elderly neighbours.*
Then I realisedEdward wasnt just unseeing. He looked at me with the same disdain hed had for my *provincial* sentimentality forty years ago.
Now hed returned to erase me completely.
*Ill consider it,* I said, standing. *Now please leave.*
Oliver beamed. He thought hed won.
Edwards parting glance held only professional satisfaction.
I locked the door, watching from the window as they left. Oliver chattered animatedly. Edward listened, a hand on his shoulder.
Father and son. What a picture.
They drove off in his polished car. I stayed.
But theyd forgotten one thing.
I wasnt just a sentimental old woman. I was a woman betrayed once before.
And I wouldnt let it happen again.
—
The next morning, I wore a suit I hadnt touched in years. Styled my hair. Studied my reflectionnot a frightened woman, but a general before battle.
The clinic smelled of expensive aftershave and sterility.
Edwards office was all leather and glass. He glanced up as I enteredthen froze.
*Anna Bennett?*
I sat. *Doctor, Id like your professional opinion on a case. Imagine a boy. His father left before he was born. Built a career, never knew he had a son.*
I spun the tale, watching his face shift from interest to dawning horror.
*Tell me, Doctorwhich wound cuts deeper? The abandoned sons? Or the fathers, when he learns the young man who hired him is his own child?*
His pen clattered to the desk.
*Anna?* A whisper.
*In the flesh,* I said, smiling faintly. *Oliver didnt know either, did he?*
The door swung open. Oliver stood there, grinninguntil he saw me.
*Mum? What?*
*Meet your father, Oliver.*
The world collapsed in his eyes.
Edward looked shattered. Oliver crumpled, sobbing into his hands.
I stood. *Sort it out yourselves. You deserve each other.*
—
Six months later, I sold the flattoo poisoned by memory.
Edward helped me find a cottage with a small garden. We talked. Not love, but something newfragile, born of shared regret.
Oliver called daily. Begged forgiveness. Said Emily left him, called him a monster.
One evening, as Edward and I sat on the porch, Oliver rang again.
*Mum can you ever forgive me?*
I watched the sunset, felt Edwards hand on mine.
No pain left. Just quiet.
*Time will tell,* I said. *But rememberyou cant build happiness by destroying the person who gave you life.*
