My son brought a psychiatrist home to have me declared unfit, but he didnt know the doctor was my ex-husbandhis own father.
“Mum, open up. Its me. And Im not alone.”
Kierans voice through the door was oddly firm, almost formal. I set my book aside and walked to the hallway, smoothing my hair as I went. Anxiety had already taken root in the pit of my stomach.
There he stood on the threshold, and behind hima tall man in a tailored coat. The stranger held an expensive leather briefcase and studied me with a calm, assessing gaze. The kind of look reserved for objects meant to be either bought or discarded.
“Can we come in?” Kieran asked, not even attempting a smile.
He stepped inside like he already owned the placewhich, perhaps, he believed he did. The stranger followed.
“Meet Dr. Edward Whitmore,” Kieran said, shrugging off his jacket. “A psychiatrist. We just need 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 sleek designer glasses. And something painfully familiar in the way he tilted his head slightly as he examined me.
My heart lurched and dropped.
Edward.
Forty years had eroded his features, dulled them with 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. Kierans father, who never knew he had a son.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Eleanor Carter,” he said in that smooth, professional therapists voice. Not a flicker of recognition. Either he didnt remember, or he chose not to.
I nodded silently, my legs going numb beneath me. The world narrowed to one pointhis composed, clinical face.
My son had brought a stranger into my home to have me committed and take my flat. And that stranger was his own father.
“Lets go to the sitting room,” I said, my voice eerily steady. I barely recognized it myself.
Kieran launched into his rehearsed speech while the “doctor” studied 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.
“Emma and I want to help,” he said. “Well buy you a cosy studio near us. Youll be looked after. The rest of the money can support you comfortably.”
He spoke as if I werent there. As if I were an old wardrobe, ready to be hauled off to storage.
Dr. Whitmoreor rather, Edwardlistened, nodding occasionally. Then he turned to me.
“Mrs. Carter, do you often speak to your late husband?” His question hit like a punch to the gut.
Kieran looked down. So, hed told him. My habit of murmuring to my late husbands photograph had been recast as a symptom.
I shifted my gaze from Kierans guilty face to Edwards impassive one. Cold fury replaced the 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 into Edwards eyes. “I do. Sometimes he even answers. Especially when the subject is betrayal.”
Not a muscle twitched in Edwards face. He merely jotted a note in his pad.
That gesture spoke louder than words. “Patient exhibits hostility, confirms defensive projection of guilt.” I could almost see the line in his neat, doctors script.
“Mum, why would you say that?” Kieran fretted. “Dr. Whitmores here to help. Youre just making it harder.”
“Help with what, son? Help free up my flat for you?”
Two warring impulses fought inside meburning hurt and the urge to shake him, scream, “Open your eyes! Look who youve brought here!” But I stayed silent. Showing my hand now meant losing.
“Thats not true,” he flushed, the red in his cheeks the only proof he still had a conscience. “Emma and I are concerned. Youre so isolated here, lost in your… memories.”
Edward raised a hand, gently silencing him.
“Kieran, let me. Mrs. Carter, what do you consider betrayal? Its an important feeling. Lets explore it.”
His assessing gaze never left me. I decided to test him, to see if hed break.
“Betrayal comes in many forms, Doctor. Sometimes a man leaves for bread and never returns. Other times… he comes back years later to take the last thing you have.”
I watched closely. Nothing. Just detached professional interest.
Either his composure was ironclad, or he truly didnt remember. The latter was more terrifying.
“An interesting metaphor,” he said. “So you perceive your sons concern as an attempt to take something from you? How long have you felt this way?”
He was interrogating me. Methodically, carefully, boxing me into his predetermined diagnosis. Every word, every gesture would be twisted to suit his narrative.
“Kieran,” I said, ignoring Edward. “Show the doctor out. We need to talk alone.”
“No,” he snapped. “Well discuss this together. I wont let you manipulate me with guilt. Dr. Whitmore stays as an independent expert.”
An “independent expert.” My ex-husband, whod never paid child support because he never knew he had a son.
The father Kieran had never met. The irony was so cruel I nearly laughed. But I held back. Laughter wouldve been another symptom.
“Fine,” I said with sudden meekness. Something inside me hardened into ice. “If you insist on helping me… tell me your plan.”
Kieran relaxed, buoyed by my surrender.
He launched into the virtues of a studio in a newbuild on the citys outskirts. Gushing about concierge service and “other lovely elderly ladies” on benches.
As he spoke, I watched Edward. And suddenly, I understood.
He didnt just fail to recognize me. He looked at me with the same mild contempt hed always reserved for things beneath himmy love of simple cotton, my battered paperbacks, my “provincial” sentimentality.
Hed run from it all years ago. And now, fate had brought him back to deliver the final blow. To declare me “ill” and sweep me out of sight.
“Ill consider your offer,” I said, rising. “Now, please leave. I need to rest.”
Kieran beamed. Hed won. Id “agreed to think.”
“Of course, Mum. Rest. Ill call tomorrow.”
They left. Edward shot me one last glancenothing but professional satisfaction.
I locked the door behind them. From the window, I watched them exit the building. Kieran chattered animatedly. Edward listened, a hand on his shoulder. Father and son. How touching.
They climbed into his expensive car and drove off. And I was left in my flat, which theyd already mentally divided.
But theyd overlooked one thing. I wasnt just some sentimental old woman. I was the woman Edward had betrayed once before. I wouldnt let it happen again.
The next morning, the phone rang at ten sharp. Kieran was irritatingly cheerful.
“Mum, hi. Did you rest? Dr. Whitmore says he needs one more session for a full evaluation. More formal, with tests. He can come by tomorrow.”
I stayed silent, fingers tracing my grandmothers silver teaspoon.
“Mum? You there?” Impatience crept into his voice. “Its just procedure, so everythings legal. Emmas already picked out olive drapes for the living room. Says theyll be perfect.”
Click.
Not a sound. A sensation. Something inside me, stretched too thin, finally 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 hearing his delighted response. Enough. Enough being understanding, weak, convenient. Enough playing the victim in their scheme. Time to start my own.
First, I opened my laptop. “Psychiatrist 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 polished confidence.
I called the clinic and booked an appointmentunder my maiden name. Eleanor Hart.
The receptionist sweetly informed me Dr. Whitmore had an opening tomorrow morning. How fortunate.
All evening, I sifted through old boxes. Not for evidence. For myself.
The twenty-year-old girl hed left pregnant because she “didnt match his ambitions.” The one whod survived, raised his son, given that son everything.
And now that son had brought his “successful” father back to dispose
