The son brought a psychiatrist home to have me declared mentally incompetent, but he didnt know the doctor was my ex-husbandhis own father.
“Mum, open up. Its me. And Im not alone.”
Daniels voice at 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 unease had already settled deep in my gut.
There he stood on the threshold, and behind hima tall man in a tailored overcoat. The stranger carried an expensive leather briefcase and studied me with calm, assessing eyes. The kind of look reserved for objects one either intends to buy or throw away.
“May we come in?” Daniel asked, not even attempting a smile.
He stepped inside like he owned the placewhich, perhaps, he already believed he did. The stranger followed.
“Meet Dr. Edward Whitmore,” Daniel 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 wire-framed glasses. And something painfully, chillingly familiar in the way he tilted his head slightly as he examined me.
My heart somersaulted and dropped.
Edward.
Forty years had eroded his features, layered them with the patina of age and a life I hadnt been part of. But it was him.
The man Id once loved to madness and cast out of my life with equal fury. Daniels father, whod never known he had a son.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Anna Hart,” he said in the smooth, practiced tone of a psychiatrist. Not a muscle twitched in his face. He didnt recognize me. Or pretended he didnt.
I nodded silently, my legs going numb. The world narrowed to one pointhis composed, professional expression.
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.
Daniel launched into his rehearsed speech while the *doctor* discreetly surveyed the room. He spoke of my “unhealthy attachment to possessions,” my “refusal to accept reality,” how this large flat was too much for me alone.
“Lizzie and I want to help,” he insisted. “Well buy you a nice little studio near us. Youll have support. And with the leftover money, you can live comfortably, never wanting for anything.”
He spoke about me as if I werent there. As if I were an old cupboard, ready to be hauled off to charity.
Edwardor rather, *Dr. Whitmore*nodded occasionally, then turned to me.
“Mrs. Hart, do you often speak to your late husband?” His question hit like a gut punch.
Daniel lowered his gaze. So, hed told him. My habit of murmuring to a photo of his father, twisted into a symptom.
I shifted my stare from my sons guilty face to his fathers impassive one. Cold fury replaced shock.
They both watched me, waiting for an answer. One with greedy impatience, the other with clinical curiosity.
Fine. If they wanted a game, theyd get one.
“Yes,” I said, locking eyes with Edward. “I do. Sometimes he even answers. Especially when the topic is betrayal.”
Not a flicker crossed Edwards face. He merely made a note in his pad.
The gesture spoke louder than words. *”Patient exhibits hostility, confirms defensive projection. Signs of guilt complex.”* I could nearly see the line written in his neat, doctors script.
“Mum, why would you say that?” Daniel fidgeted. “Dr. Whitmores here to help. And youre just being difficult.”
“Help with what, Daniel? Help free up property for you?”
I studied him, torn between scalding hurt and the urge to shake him, scream *”Wake up! Look who youve brought home!”* But I stayed silent. Showing my hand now meant losing.
“Thats not true,” he flushed, the blush of shame the only proof he still had a conscience. “Lizzie and I are concerned. Youre alone here, trapped with your memories.”
Edward raised a hand, gently stopping him.
“Daniel, allow me. Mrs. Hart, what exactly do you consider betrayal? Its an important feeling. Lets discuss it.”
He watched me with that same analytical gaze. I decided to go all in. To test him.
“Betrayal comes in many forms, Doctor. Sometimes a man leaves for bread and never returns. Sometimes he comes back years later to take the last thing you have.”
I watched for his reaction. Nothing. Absolute nothing. Just mild professional interest.
Either his composure was ironclad, or he genuinely didnt remember. The latter was somehow worse.
“Interesting metaphor,” he noted. “So you perceive your sons care as an attempt to take something from you? Has this feeling persisted long?”
He was interrogating me. Methodically, expertly, cornering me with the diagnosis hed prewritten. Every word, every gesture would be twisted to fit his narrative.
“Daniel,” I ignored the doctor, addressing my son. “Show Dr. Whitmore out. We need to speak alone.”
“No,” he snapped. “Well talk together. I wont let you twist things again, play the victim. Dr. Whitmore is an independent expert.”
*Independent expert.* My ex-husband, whod never paid child support because hed never known he had a child.
The father Daniel had never met. The irony was so brutal I nearly laughed aloud. But I held back. Laughter would just be another symptom.
“Fine,” I said, feigning surrender. Inside, something froze and hardened into a blade. “If you insist on helping Tell me your proposal.”
Daniel visibly relaxed, mistaking my compliance for defeat.
He eagerly described the benefits of a tiny studio on the outskirtsthe concierge, the “lovely elderly neighbors.” He spoke as if I werent there, as if I were an old piece of furniture to be relocated.
I listened and watched Edward. And suddenly, I understood.
He didnt just fail to recognize me. He looked at me with the same faint disdain hed always reserved for anything he deemed beneath himmy love for simple things, my dog-eared books, my “provincial” sentimentality.
Hed fled from it years ago. And now, by cruel fate, hed returned to deliver the final verdict. To declare me “unfit” and erase me entirely.
“Ill consider your offer,” I said, rising. “Now, please leave. I need rest.”
Daniel beamed. Hed won. Id “agreed to think.”
“Of course, Mum. Rest. Ill call tomorrow.”
They left. Edward threw me one last glancenothing but professional satisfaction.
I locked the door behind them. From the window, I watched them exit the building, Daniel animatedly talking, Edwards hand resting on his shoulder. Father and son. What a picture.
They drove off in his sleek car. I remained. In my flat, already mentally divided between them.
But theyd overlooked one thing. I wasnt just a sentimental old woman. I was a woman whod been betrayed once. And I wouldnt allow it a second time.
The next morning, the phone rang at ten sharp. Daniels voice was sickeningly cheerful.
“Mum, how are you? Did you rest? Dr. Whitmore said he needs one more sessionmore formal, with tests. He can come by tomorrow afternoon.”
I stayed silent, fingering my grandmothers old silver spoonthe only thing I had left of her.
“Mum? You there?” Impatience crept into his tone. “Its just a formality, for legal reasons. Lizzies already picked out olive drapes for the living room. She says theyll match perfectly.”
*Click.*
Not a sounda sensation. Something inside me, stretched too thin, snapped. *Drapes.*
They were already choosing drapes for *my* flat. My home. I wasnt even gone yet, and they were dividing my life, my furniture, my space.
“Fine,” I said coldly. “Let him come. Ill be waiting.”
I hung up before his relieved chatter continued. Enough. Enough being understanding, weak, convenient. Enough playing the victim in their script. Time to write my own.
First, I opened my laptop. *”Psychiatrist Dr. Edward Whitmore.”*
The internet knew everything. There he wasmy Edward. Successful doctor, owner of *Harmony Mind Clinic*, published academic, TV expert.
In photos, he smiled with practiced reassurance, radiating authority.
I found the clinics number. And booked an appointment. Under my maiden name. *Anna Clarke.*
The receptionist politely informed me the doctor had an opening tomorrow morning. How fortunate.
All evening, I sifted
