*The wind howled against the clinic window as the doctor leaned back in his leather chair, his tone clipped and final.*
*”You give your child too much attention.”*
The words struck like ice. But I’m not anxious—I’m just a mother.
If my son were still little, perhaps I wouldn’t worry. But he’s nearly fifteen, and still, night after night, he doesn’t sleep. He drifts off at dawn, when he should be in school, lively, social, alive. We switched to homeschooling—not as a whim, but a necessity. His body refuses to follow a normal rhythm.
No, it’s not gaming. Not endless scrolling. He reads. Writes. Sketches. Listens to lectures on astrophysics, medieval history, coding. His mind won’t shut off—as if someone removed the “off” switch.
At first, I watched. Then I noticed the little things—the way he tapped his fingers relentlessly against the desk, the way he adjusted the rug five, six, seven times. Not disruptive. Terrifying. Because it meant his nerves were fraying. So I did what any mother would—I sought help.
The neurologist sent us for tests. All normal. Next, the psychiatrist.
He greeted us with a cold smile, his focus not on my son but on *me*. Polite, detached—until his verdict dropped like a guillotine.
*”You smother him.”*
I froze.
*”Excuse me?”*
*”Most parents see their children at breakfast and dinner,”* he continued, as if reciting a manual. *”You? You’re always there. No wonder his psyche’s fragile—raised in a greenhouse.”*
*”I work from home. Is that a crime?”*
*”The crime is your paranoia!”* His pen tapped the file. *”You’ve dragged him across London for tests. Invented a problem to… what? Feel needed?”*
*”The neurologist ordered those tests,”* I said, steady. *”I followed advice.”*
*”A sensible mother would’ve refused—bloody expensive! And look at you now—gazing at him like he’s heaven-sent while he digs in his pockets like a delinquent. No discipline. No boundaries. You’re soft. If I were you, I’d be the one on medication.”*
Then—it happened. Half an hour *I* paid for, and *he* talked. About *his* daughter. The one who dyed her hair black, chain-smoked by the subway, ran with a crowd that made his hands shake. How *he* popped sedatives to cope. *”That,”* he said, *”is how you accept a teenager.”*
I listened. Thanked him. Walked out.
The crisp air outside was a relief.
Because here’s the truth: I’m not anxious. I’m a mother. One who refuses to let her son drown in the chaos of hormones, fear, and endless nights. Yes, I’m there. Yes, we face it together. And if that unsettles someone? Then they’ve never known real love.
Now I search for a new doctor. One who listens. Who sees *him*, not just a diagnosis. Because loving your child isn’t a disorder. It’s normal. It’s motherhood.
