“You’re paying your child too much attention,” the doctor told me. But I’m not anxious—I’m just a mother.
If my son were still a toddler, perhaps I wouldn’t worry. But he’s nearly fifteen, and still, he doesn’t sleep at night. He sleeps by day, when he ought to be studying, socialising, living. We even switched him to home education—not for convenience, but necessity. The boy simply can’t function on a normal schedule.
No, he’s not gaming or lost in his phone. He reads. Writes. Draws. Listens to lectures. Absorbs biology, coding, history all at once. He just… can’t sleep. Like his brain doesn’t know where the “off” switch is.
At first, I watched. Then I noticed the oddities—the desk drawer slamming ten times in a row, the rug twitching, the rhythmic knock on the wall. It frightened me. Not because it was disruptive—but because it was proof: his nerves were fraying. So I decided—we needed help.
We saw a neurologist. Tests followed. All normal. Then, the psychiatrist. He greeted us with a chilly smile and spoke not to my son, but to me. Polite, measured words, until he landed his verdict:
“You,” he said, “are overbearing. You spend too much time with your son. You’ve… smothered him with love.”
I stared. “Excuse me?”
“Normal parents,” he continued, lecturing, “see their child at breakfast and dinner. You hover. No wonder his mind’s like a hothouse plant.”
“I work from home. Is that a crime?”
“The crime is your paranoia!” he snapped. “You’ve dragged him halfway across London for tests, hunting a disease that doesn’t exist. You scrutinise, you obsess. You want to find a problem—just to feel needed.”
“With respect,” I said evenly, “the referrals weren’t my idea. I followed advice.”
“A proper mother would’ve refused—do you know how much this costs? Even now, you gaze at him like he’s made of glass. Look at him—digging in his pockets, no manners, no discipline. And you? Soft. No backbone. I’d be on medication if I were you.”
And then… it unraveled. Half an hour of my time—and my money—wasted as he monologued about himself.
His daughter, who never speaks, dyes her hair blue, runs about in shorts mid-winter. Who smokes in the stairwell, runs with questionable crowds. How he pops sedatives to cope. This, he said, was how one “accepts” a teenager.
I listened. Waited. Thanked him—and left.
Outside, the air was lighter.
And you know what? I’m not anxious. I’m a mother. The kind who wants to understand her child, to stand with him through the storm of hormones and sleepless nights. Yes, I’m here. Yes, we face it together. And if that unsettles anyone—then they’ve never known real care.
Now, I’ll find another doctor. One who listens. Not a man who vents his frustrations in our session, but someone who’ll truly hear us. Because I know this: loving your child isn’t a diagnosis. It’s normal. It’s motherhood.
