My son brought a psychiatrist home to have me declared mentally unfit, but he had no idea this doctor was my ex-husbandhis own father.
“Mum, open up. Its me. And Im not alone.”
Callums voice through the door was unusually stiff, almost formal. I set my book aside and went to the hallway, smoothing my hair as I walked. A knot of dread had already settled deep in my chest.
There he stood on the threshold, and behind hima tall man in a sharp overcoat. The stranger carried an expensive leather briefcase and studied me with calm, assessing eyes. The sort of look youd give something youre deciding whether to buy or discard.
“Can we come in?” Callum asked, not even attempting a smile.
He stepped inside like he owned the placewhich, I suppose, he already thought he did. The stranger followed.
“Meet Dr. Edward Hartley,” Callum 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 “Dr. Hartley.” Silver at his temples, thin pressed lips, tired eyes behind stylish glasses. And something achingly, chillingly familiar in the way he tilted his head slightly, watching me.
My heart flipped and dropped.
Edward.
Forty years had blurred his features, softened them with age and a life I didnt know. But it was him. The man Id once loved to madness and thrown out with equal fury. Callums father, whod never known he had a son.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Eleanor Whitmore,” he said in that smooth, professional psychiatrists voice. Not a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Either he didnt remember, or he was pretending not to.
I nodded silently, my legs going numb. The world narrowed to one point: his calm, detached face.
My son had brought a man into my home to have me committed and take my flatand that man was his own father.
“Lets go to the sitting room,” I said, sounding eerily composed, even to myself.
Callum launched into his rehearsed speech while the “doctor” subtly scanned the room. He talked about my “unhealthy attachment to possessions,” my “refusal to accept reality,” how this flat was “too much” for me.
“Grace and I want to help,” he explained. “Well buy you a cosy studio near us. Youll have support. And with the leftover money, youll live comfortably.”
He spoke as if I werent there. As if I were an old wardrobe to be hauled off to storage.
Dr. HartleyEdwardnodded along, then turned to me.
“Mrs. Whitmore, do you often speak to your late husband?” His question hit like a sucker punch.
Callum looked away. So, hed told him. My habit of murmuring to old photos had been twisted into a symptom.
I shifted my gaze from my sons guilty face to Edwards impassive 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. “Sometimes he even answers. Especially when the topic is betrayal.”
Not a muscle moved in his face. He just made a quick note in his pad. That gesture spoke louder than words. *Patient displays aggression, confirms defensive projection.* I could practically see the words in his neat script.
“Mum, why would you say that?” Callum bristled. “Dr. Hartleys trying to help, and youre just being difficult.”
“Help with what, exactly? Helping you free up property?”
Two warring emotions fought inside me: searing hurt and the urge to shake him, scream, *”Wake up! Look who youve brought here!”* But I stayed silent. Showing my hand now meant losing.
“Thats not it,” he flushed, the only sign he still had a conscience. “Grace and I are concerned. Youre alone here, trapped with your… memories.”
Edward lifted a hand, gently cutting him off.
“Callum, allow me. Mrs. Whitmore, what exactly do you consider betrayal? Its an important feeling. Lets discuss it.”
His probing gaze never left me. I decided to up the stakes. Test him.
“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 for any reaction. Nothing. Just mild professional interest. Either his self-control was ironclad, or he genuinely didnt remember. The latter was somehow worse.
“Interesting metaphor,” he noted. “So you perceive your sons concern as an attempt to take something from you? How long have you felt this way?”
This was an interrogation. Methodical, leading me straight into his predetermined diagnosis. Every word, every gesture twisted to fit his narrative.
“Callum,” I ignored Edward, “take the doctor out. We need to talk privately.”
“No,” he snapped. “Well discuss this together. No more manipulation or guilt trips. Dr. Hartley stays as an impartial expert.”
*Impartial expert.* My ex-husband, whod never paid child support because he never knew he had a child. The father Callum had never met. The irony was so cruel I nearly laughed.
“Fine,” I said, suddenly docile. Something inside me hardened into ice. “If youre so eager to help… what exactly are you proposing?”
Callum relaxed, mistaking my calm for surrender. He gushed about a studio in some new build, a concierge, “nice little old ladies” on benches.
I listened, watching Edward. And then I understood.
He didnt just fail to recognise me. He looked at me with the same quiet disdain hed always had for things beneath himmy love of simple things, my paperbacks, my “provincial” sentimentality.
Hed run from it decades ago. Now, by some twist of fate, hed returned to deliver the final verdict. To label me “unstable” and sweep me aside.
“Ill think about it,” I stood abruptly. “Now please, leave. I need to rest.”
Callum beamed. He thought hed won.
“Of course, Mum. Rest up. Ill call tomorrow.”
They left. Edwards parting glance held nothing but professional satisfaction.
I locked the door, watched from the window as they walked to his sleek car. Callum chattered excitedly. 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 some sentimental old woman. I was a woman whod been betrayed once. I wouldnt let it happen again.
The next morning, the phone rang at ten sharp. Callum sounded breezy, businesslike.
“Mum, hi. Did you rest? Dr. Hartley suggested a formal evaluation. Tests. He can come by tomorrow.”
I stayed silent, fingers tracing my grandmothers silver spoon.
“Mum? Its just procedure. Grace already picked out olive drapes for the living room.”
*Click.*
Not a sounda sensation. Something inside me snapped. *Drapes.* They were choosing drapes for *my* flat.
“Fine,” I said coldly. “Let him come.”
I hung up before his gleeful response. Enough. No more playing the victim. Time for my move.
First, I opened my laptop. *”Psychiatrist Dr. Edward Hartley.”*
The internet knew everything. There he wassuccessful, owner of *Harmony Mind Clinic*, published expert.
I booked an appointment under my maiden name: *Eleanor Greene.*
That evening, I dug through old boxes. Not for proof. For *me.* The twenty-year-old girl hed left pregnant because she “didnt fit his ambitions.” The one whod survived, raised a son, given him everything.
Now that son had brought his “successful” father to dispose of his “problematic” mother.
Next morning, I dressed carefullya tailored suit, hair styled, makeup subtle. The mirror showed not a frightened woman but a general before battle.
*Harmony Mind Clinic* smelled of expensive perfume and sterility. His office was all leather and dark wood.
Edward looked up as I entered. Confusion flickeredhe hadnt expected “Mrs. Whitmore” here.
“Good morning,” he gestured to the chair. “Eleanor… Greene? How can I help?”
I sat, poised. No shouting, no accusations. My weapon was precision.
“Doctor, Id like your professional opinion on a hypothetical case. Imagine a boy whose father left before his birth. Never knew he existed. Years later, the boy meets this manrich, successful. He devises a plan…”
I spun the tale. His expression shifted from interest to unease.
“Tell me, Doctor,” I leaned in. “Which wound cuts deeper? The abandoned son
