🧠 A Psychiatrist at the Door: The Son, the Father, and the Woman They Underestimated

“Mom, open the door. It’s me. And I’m not alone.”

Kiril’s voice was firm, almost bureaucratic. I closed my book and walked to the hallway, smoothing my hair with trembling fingers. A knot of dread had already begun to tighten in my stomach.

On the doorstep stood my son—and behind him, a tall man in a tailored overcoat, holding a sleek leather briefcase. His eyes scanned me with a calm, appraising look. The kind of look you give an antique: deciding whether to restore it… or discard it.

“May we come in?” Kiril asked, his tone devoid of warmth.

He stepped inside like he already owned the place. The stranger followed.

“This is Igor Viktorovich,” Kiril said, removing his jacket. “He’s a doctor. We just want to talk. I’m worried about you.”

The word “worried” landed like a verdict.

I turned to the man. Gray at the temples, thin lips pressed into a line, tired eyes behind designer glasses. And something—achingly familiar—in the way he tilted his head while observing me.

My heart dropped.

Igor.

Forty years had softened and aged him, but it was unmistakably him. The man I had once loved with reckless abandon—and banished with equal fury. Kiril’s father. The man who never knew he had a son.

“Good afternoon, Anna Valeryevna,” he said in the polished tone of a psychiatrist. Not a flicker of recognition. Or perhaps he was pretending.

I nodded, legs numb. The world narrowed to his face—calm, clinical, detached.

My son had brought a psychiatrist to declare me mentally unfit and seize my apartment. And that psychiatrist was his own father.

“Let’s go to the living room,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

Kiril launched into his case. Igor scanned the room with quiet calculation.

My son spoke of my “irrational attachment to objects,” my “refusal to accept reality,” and how difficult it was for me to live alone in such a large apartment.

“Katya and I just want to help,” he said. “We’ll get you a cozy studio near us. You’ll be looked after. You’ll have money left to live comfortably.”

He spoke as if I were furniture. A relic to be relocated.

Igor nodded occasionally, then turned to me.

“Anna Valeryevna, do you often speak to your late husband?”

The question hit like a slap.

Kiril looked away. So he had told him. My habit of speaking to my husband’s photo had become a “symptom.”

I looked from my son’s uneasy face to Igor’s impassive one. Rage replaced shock.

They were both watching me—one with greedy anticipation, the other with clinical detachment.

Fine. They wanted a performance? I’d give them one.

“Yes,” I said, locking eyes with Igor. “Sometimes he even answers. Especially when we talk about betrayal.”

Igor didn’t flinch. He scribbled a note.

I could almost see the words: “Patient exhibits defensive sarcasm. Possible projection of unresolved guilt.”

“Mom, why are you saying things like that?” Kiril asked, flustered. “Igor Viktorovich is trying to help.”

“Help with what, son? Help free up space for you?”

I wanted to scream, “Look who you’ve brought!” But I stayed silent. Revealing the truth now would mean losing.

“That’s not it,” Kiril said, cheeks flushed. “We’re just worried. You’re alone. Surrounded by memories.”

Igor raised a hand.

“Kiril, let me. Anna Valeryevna, what do you consider betrayal?”

I leaned forward.

“Betrayal takes many forms, doctor. Sometimes a man goes out for bread and never returns. Sometimes he comes back decades later to take away the last thing you have.”

Igor’s face remained unreadable. Either he had iron control—or he truly didn’t remember me.

“An interesting metaphor,” he said. “So you see your son’s concern as an attempt to take something from you?”

He was building his diagnosis, brick by brick.

“Kiril,” I said, ignoring Igor. “Walk the doctor out. We need to talk alone.”

“No,” Kiril snapped. “We’ll discuss everything together. Igor Viktorovich is an independent expert.”

Independent. My ex-husband. The man who never paid child support because he never knew he had a child.

“Fine,” I said, ice forming inside me. “Tell me your proposal.”

Kiril described the studio—concierge service, benches with “grandmas like you.”

I watched Igor. Then I understood.

He hadn’t just failed to recognize me. He looked at me with the same faint disdain he’d always had—for my cotton dresses, my paperbacks, my “provincial” heart.

He’d run from that once. Now he was back to label it “unfit.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to rest.”

Kiril smiled. He thought he’d won.

They left. Igor’s parting glance was one of professional satisfaction.

I locked the door and watched them walk to his expensive car—father and son, united.

But they’d miscalculated.

I wasn’t just a sentimental old woman. I was a woman who’d been betrayed once—and there wouldn’t be a second time.

🔍 The Reckoning

The next morning, I found him online. Dr. Igor Viktorovich Sokolovsky. Private clinic owner. Media expert. Smiling in photos.

I booked an appointment under my maiden name: Anna Krylova.

When I entered his office, he didn’t expect me.

“Anna… Krylova? How can I help you?”

“Doctor, I want your opinion on a case. Imagine a boy whose father left his mother pregnant and never came back…”

I told the story. Watched his face change.

“Which wound is deeper?” I asked. “The one the boy got when his father left? Or the one the father will get when he learns the young man who hired him to declare his mother incompetent… is his own son? Your son. And I am your former wife. Aня. Remember me, Igor?”

He crumbled. Pale. Shaking.

Just then, Kiril walked in—smiling, until he saw us.

“Meet your father,” I said.

The world fell out from under him.

I left them to deal with each other.

🌿 The Aftermath

Six months later, I sold the apartment and moved to a small house in the countryside. Igor helped me find it. He didn’t ask for forgiveness. He knew better. But he stayed close.

Kiril called often, apologizing. His greed had cost him everything.

One evening, as Igor and I watched the sunset, Kiril called again.

“Mom… will you ever forgive me?”

I looked at the man beside me. At my peaceful garden.

“Time will tell, son. Time heals everything. But remember this: you can’t build your happiness by destroying the life of the one who gave you yours.”