My son brought a psychiatrist home to have me declared mentally unfit, but he didnt know the doctor was my ex-husbandhis own father.
“Mum, open the door. Its me. And Im not alone.”
Kyles voice through the door was unusually firm, almost formal. I set aside my book and walked to the hallway, smoothing my hair as I went. A knot of unease had already taken root in my chest.
On the doorstep stood my son, and behind hima tall man in a tailored coat. The stranger carried an expensive leather briefcase and studied me with calm, assessing eyes. The kind of look reserved for objects one intends to either buy or discard.
“May we come in?” Kyle asked, not even attempting a smile.
He stepped inside as if he owned the placewhich, perhaps, he already believed he did. The stranger followed.
“This is Dr. Edward Whitmore,” Kyle said, shrugging off his jacket. “Hes a psychiatrist. Were just here to talk. Im worried about you.”
The word “worried” sounded like a verdict. I studied this “Edward Whitmore.” Silver at his temples, thin lips pressed tight, tired eyes behind stylish glasses. And something achingly familiar in the way he tilted his head slightly, observing me.
My heart lurched.
Edward.
Forty years had softened his features, layered them with the patina of time and a life I didnt know. But it was him.
The man Id once loved to madness and cast out with equal fury. Kyles father, whod never known he had a son.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Anna Harper,” he said in the smooth, measured tone of a professional. Not a flicker of recognition crossed his face. Or perhaps he was pretending.
I nodded silently, my legs going numb. The world narrowed to one point: his composed, clinical expression.
My son had brought a man to have me institutionalized and take my flat. And that man was his own father.
“Lets go to the sitting room,” I said, my voice eerily calm. I barely recognized it myself.
Kyle launched into his rehearsed speech while the “doctor” surveyed the room. He spoke of my “unhealthy attachment to possessions,” my “refusal to accept reality,” how a large flat was too much for me alone.
“Emma and I want to help,” he said. “Well buy you a cozy studio near us. Youll be looked after. The money left over will let you live comfortably.”
He spoke as if I werent there. As if I were an old cabinet to be cleared out.
Dr. Whitmoreor rather, Edwardlistened, nodding occasionally. Then he turned to me.
“Mrs. Harper, do you often speak to your late husband?” His question hit like a punch to the gut.
Kyle looked away. So, hed told him. My habit of murmuring to a photograph had been twisted into a symptom.
I shifted my gaze from my sons guilty face to Edwards impenetrable one. Cold fury replaced shock.
They both watched me, waiting. One with greedy impatience, the other with clinical curiosity.
Fine. If 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 moved in his face. He simply made a note in his pad. The gesture spoke louder than words: *Patient exhibits defensive hostility. Projects guilt.* I could almost see the neat script.
“Mum, why would you say that?” Kyles voice wavered. “Dr. Whitmores trying to help, and youre just”
“Help with what, son? Help free up property for you?”
Two warring emotions twisted inside me: searing hurt and the urge to shake him, to scream, *Open your eyes! Look who youve brought!* But I stayed silent. Showing my hand now meant losing.
“Thats not true,” he flushed, the redness his only human remnant. “Emma and I are concerned. Youre all alone here with your… memories.”
Edward raised a hand, gently silencing him.
“Kyle, if I may. Mrs. Harper, what do you consider betrayal? Its a powerful emotion. Lets discuss it.”
His studying gaze never left me. I decided to gamble.
“Betrayal comes in many forms, Doctor. Sometimes a man leaves for work and never returns. Other times… he comes back years later to take the last thing you have.”
I watched for a reaction. Nothing. Only detached interest.
Either his control was ironclad, or he genuinely didnt remember. The latter was more terrifying.
“An interesting metaphor,” he noted. “So you perceive your sons concern as an attempt to take something? Has this feeling persisted long?”
This was an interrogation. Every word, every gesture would be twisted to fit his narrative.
“Kyle,” I ignored Edward, “show the doctor out. We need to speak privately.”
“No,” he snapped. “Well talk together. I wont let you manipulate me with guilt. Dr. Whitmores here as an impartial expert.”
*Impartial expert.* My ex-husband, whod never paid child support because he hadnt known he had a child.
The father Kyle had never met. The irony was so cruel I nearly laughed. But laughter, too, would be filed under *symptoms.*
“Fine,” I said, feigning surrender. Inside, something hardened into ice. “If youre so eager to help… whats your proposal?”
Kyle brightened, mistaking my frost for compliance. He gushed about a studio in a new build, a concierge, “nice little old ladies” on benches.
I listened and watched Edward. And then I understood.
He hadnt just failed to recognize me. He looked at me with the same disdain hed once reserved for my “provincial” sentimentality, my dog-eared paperbacks, my love of simple things.
Hed run from it all years ago. Now, fate had brought him back to deliver the final blow. To label me “unwell” and erase me.
“Ill think about it,” I stood abruptly. “Now, please leave. I need rest.”
Kyle beamed. Hed won. Id “agreed to consider.”
“Of course, Mum. Ill call tomorrow.”
They left. Edwards parting glance held only professional satisfaction.
I locked the door and watched from the window as they climbed into his luxury car. Kyle gestured animatedly; Edward listened, a hand on his shoulder. Father and son. How touching.
Theyd already divided my home in their minds.
But theyd underestimated me. I wasnt just some sentimental old woman. I was a woman whod been betrayed once before. I wouldnt allow it again.
The next morning, I searched “Psychiatrist Dr. Edward Whitmore.”
The internet knew everything. There he was: successful, owner of “Harmony Mind Clinic,” TV expert. In photos, he radiated competence.
I booked an appointment under my maiden name: Anna Cole.
That evening, I sifted through old boxes. I wasnt hunting for proof. I was hunting for *myself*the young woman hed left pregnant because she “didnt fit his ambitions.” The one whod survived, raised a son, given him everything.
And now that son had brought his “successful” father to dispose of his “problem” mother.
The next morning, I wore a sharp trouser suit I hadnt touched in years. My reflection showed not a frightened woman, but a general ready for battle.
The clinic smelled of expensive air freshener and sterility. His office was vast, all leather and dark wood.
He looked up as I entered. Surprise flickeredhe hadnt expected “Mrs. Harper.” But he didnt yet realize who I was.
“Good morning,” he gestured to the chair. “Anna… Cole? How can I help?”
I sat, folding my hands. My weapon wasnt rage. It was truth.
“Doctor, Id like your professional opinion on a case. Imagine a boy whose father abandoned his pregnant mother to pursue success. That boy grew up and, years later, met his fatherwealthy, accomplished. And he hatched a plan…”
I spoke. At first, he listened with clinical interest. Then tension crept in. His mask slipped.
“Tell me, Doctor,” I leaned forward, “which wound cuts deeper? The sons abandonment? Or the fathers, when he learns the young man who hired him is his own childand he just helped that child declare his mother incompetent?”
The mask shattered. Edward Whitmoreno, just Edward nowstared at me, pale and shaking.
“Anna?” His whisper was a confession.
“In the flesh,” I allowed a bitter smile. “Surprised? So was I when my son brought home his own father to steal my home.”
His briefcase slipped from his lap.
Kyle chose that moment to burst in, grinning. “Dr. Whitmore, Mum said you had time today”
