The son brought a psychiatrist home to declare me incompetent, but he didnt know the doctor was my ex-husbandand his father.
“Mum, open the door. Its me. And Im not alone.”
Olivers voice through the door was oddly firm, almost official. I set my book aside and walked to the hallway, smoothing my hair as I went. A knot of unease had already settled in my stomach.
At the threshold stood my son, and behind hima tall man in a crisp overcoat. The stranger held an expensive leather briefcase and studied me with calm, assessing eyes. The sort of look reserved for objects one intends to either purchase or discard.
“May we come in?” Oliver asked, not even attempting a smile.
He stepped inside as if he already owned the placeand perhaps, in his mind, 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.”
Salt-and-pepper hair at the temples, thin lips pressed tight, tired eyes behind stylish glasses. And something painfully familiar in the way he tilted his head slightly, observing me.
My heart lurched.
Edward.
Forty years had blurred his features, etched them with age and a life I didnt know. But it was him.
The man Id once loved to madness and cast from my life with ruthless fury. Olivers father, who never knew he had a son.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Parker,” he said in that smooth, professional tone psychiatrists perfect. Not a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Either he didnt rememberor pretended not to.
I nodded silently, my legs going numb. The world narrowed to one point: his composed, clinical face.
My son had brought a man into our home to lock me away and take my flat. And that man was his own father.
“Lets go to the sitting room,” I said, my voice eerily steady. I barely recognized it myself.
Oliver 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 this large flat was too much for me alone.
“Emily and I want to help,” he explained. “Well get you a cosy studio near us. Youll be looked after. With the leftover money, youll live comfortably.”
He spoke as if I werent there. As if I were an old dresser, ready for the skip.
Edwardor rather, Dr. Whitmorelistened, nodding occasionally. Then he turned to me.
“Mrs. Parker, do you often speak to your late husband?” His question hit like a punch to the gut.
Oliver looked away. So, hed told him. My habit of murmuring to my husbands photograph had been twisted into a symptom.
I shifted my gaze from my sons guilty face to Edwards impassive one. Cold fury replaced the shock.
Both waited for my answerone with greedy impatience, the other clinical curiosity.
They wanted a game? Theyd get one.
“Yes,” I said, staring straight at Edward. “I do. Sometimes he even answers. Especially when the topic is betrayal.”
Not a muscle twitched in Edwards face. He simply made a note in his pad.
That gesture spoke louder than words. “Patient exhibits aggressive deflection. Projects guilt.” I could almost see the words in his neat, doctorly script.
“Mum, why would you say that?” Oliver bristled. “Youre making this difficult.”
“Difficult how? By refusing to hand over my home?”
Two warring emotions battled inside mesearing hurt and the urge to shake him, scream: “Wake up! Look who youve brought here!” But I stayed silent. Showing my hand now would mean losing.
“Thats not it,” he flushed, the red in his cheeks the only proof he still felt shame. “Emily and I are concerned. Youre alone here, lost in memories.”
Edward raised a hand, gently cutting him off.
“Oliver, let me. Mrs. Parker, what do you consider betrayal? Its a significant emotion. Lets explore it.”
He studied me with that same detached gaze. 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 his reaction. Nothing. Only mild professional interest.
Either his composure was steel, or he truly didnt remember. The latter was worse.
“An intriguing metaphor,” he noted. “So you perceive your sons concern as an attempt to take something? How long have you felt this way?”
He was boxing me in, framing every word as proof of instability.
“Oliver,” I ignored Edward, “give us a moment alone.”
“No,” he snapped. “Well talk together. I wont let you manipulate this.”
“Independent expert,” my ex-husband, whod never paid child support because he never knew he had a child.
The father Oliver had never met. The irony was cruel enough to laughbut laughter would only be another symptom.
“Fine,” I conceded, feeling something inside me harden into ice. “If youre so eager to help what exactly are you proposing?”
Oliver brightened, mistaking my calm for surrender.
He eagerly described a tiny studio in a new build on the citys outskirtsconcierge service, “other nice elderly ladies” nearby. He spoke as if I werent there.
I listened and watched Edward. And suddenly understood.
He didnt just fail to recognize me. He looked at me with the same faint disdain hed once reserved for everything he deemed beneath himmy love of simple cotton dresses, my dog-eared paperbacks, my “provincial” sentimentality.
Hed run from it forty years ago. Now, fate had brought him back to deliver the final blow.
“Ill think about it,” I stood abruptly. “Please leave. I need to rest.”
Oliver beamed. He thought hed won.
“Of course, Mum. Rest. Ill call tomorrow.”
They left. Edwards parting glance held nothing but professional satisfaction.
I locked the door and watched from the window as they climbed into his expensive car. Oliver gestured animatedly. Edward listened, a hand on his shoulder.
Father and son. How touching.
They drove off, already mentally dividing my flat. But theyd overlooked one thing.
I wasnt just a sentimental old woman. I was a woman whod been betrayed once. I wouldnt allow it twice.
The next day, Oliver called at ten sharp, voice chirpy and businesslike.
“Mum, hi. Did you rest? Dr. Whitmore suggested another sessionmore formal, with assessments. He can come tomorrow.”
I stayed silent, fingering my grandmothers silver spoonall I had left of her.
“Mum? Its just procedure. Emilys already picked olive drapes for the living roomtheyll suit perfectly.”
Click.
Not a sound. A sensation. Something inside me snapped.
Drapes.
Theyd already chosen drapes for my flat. My home. I wasnt even gone, and they were divvying up my life.
“Fine,” I said coldly. “Let him come.”
I hung up before his cheers. Enough playing the weak, understanding victim. Time to fight back.
First, I opened my laptop. “Psychiatrist Dr. Edward Whitmore.”
The internet knew everything. There he wasmy Edward. Successful doctor, owner of “Harmony Minds Clinic,” published author, TV expert.
In photos, he smiled confidently, radiating reliability.
I called the clinic, booking an appointment under my maiden nameAnne Carter.
The receptionist kindly offered an opening tomorrow morning. How convenient.
That evening, I sorted through old boxes. I wasnt hunting for proofI was finding myself.
The twenty-year-old girl hed left pregnant because she “didnt fit his ambitions.” The one who survived, raised her son alone, gave him everything.
And now that son had brought his “successful” father to help discard his “problematic” mother.
Next morning, I dressed carefullya tailored trouser suit I hadnt worn in years. Hair styled, makeup subtle. The mirror showed not a frightened woman but a general before battle.
“Harmony Minds Clinic” smelled of expensive perfume and sterility. I was shown to his office.
Large, with panoramic windows and leather furniture.
Edward sat behind his mahogany desk. He looked up as I enteredand surprise flickered across his face.
He hadnt expected “Mrs. Parker” here. Not yet.
“Good morning,” he gestured to the chair. “Anne Carter? How can I help?”
I sat, placing my bag on my lap. My weapon wasnt shoutingit was precision.
“Doctor, I need advice on a case,” I began calmly. “Imagine a boy
