Matthew (in middle school)
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon rolls hung heavy in the air, a familiar comfort in the sterile confines of Dr Evans' office. Three months. That's all it took. Three lousy months after Dad's funeral for Mom to… well, for Mom to do whatever it was she was doing with Molly's father.
I winced at the intrusive thought. Paranoia, Dr. Evans would say, is a side effect of the medication, a necessary evil. Necessary to keep me from spiralling down the same dark path as Dad. The man spent the last year of his life convinced Mom was cheating on him, his accusations growing increasingly frantic until… until his heart just gave out. One minute yelling at the mailman, the next crumpled on the floor, his face a mask of silent accusation.
Therapy hadn't exactly helped. Not in the way I'd hoped, anyway. It was supposed to make me less like Dad, less prone to suspicion and distrust. Instead, it slapped a shiny new label on it – paranoia – and a prescription for pills that made the world feel muffled, like I was watching life through a blurry lens.
Yet, there I was, every Wednesday at 10 AM, spilling my guts to Dr Evans, a kind-faced woman with a suspiciously calming aura. Maybe it was the lavender oil diffuser perpetually spewing its scent, or maybe it was just the sheer absurdity of confessing my latest suspicions to a stranger who took notes with a practised smile.
Today's target? David, freaking David, Molly's dad. The man who used to teach me how to throw a perfect curveball. Now, he was the enemy, the man stealing my mother's affections, the catalyst for the hollowness that had settled in my gut.
"So, Matthew," Dr. Evans began, her voice a soothing melody, "tell me about your concerns this week."
I hesitated, the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in my chest. "It's Mom," I finally managed, my voice barely above a whisper. "And her new boyfriend, David."
Dr. Evans leaned back in her chair, her expression carefully neutral. "What makes you think something is going on there?"
"Everything," I blurted out, the frustration bubbling over. "They're always talking on the phone. They take these 'long walks' together, and Mom keeps coming home with these… these radiant smiles."
Stupid, pathetic. Even as the words left my mouth, I knew how ridiculous they sounded. A smile? That was all the evidence I had? Dr Evans, bless her ever-patient heart, didn't laugh.
"Matthew," she said gently, "have you spoken to your mother about these concerns?"
Of course not. The mere thought of confronting her sent shivers down my spine. Mom, the woman who used to chase away my monsters under the bed, the woman who held my hand through every heartbreak, was now a stranger shrouded in secrets.
"No," I mumbled, looking down at my shoes.
Dr Evans sighed, a soft sound that seemed to hold a world of understanding. "Matthew, the medication is meant to help you manage intrusive thoughts, not silence them completely. But communication is key. Talking to your mother, expressing your concerns in a calm and open way, is the best path forward."
Easy for her to say. Talking meant vulnerability, and vulnerability was a luxury I couldn't afford. But Dr. Evans' words hung in the air, a seed of doubt planted in the fertile ground of my paranoia.
The rest of the session was a blur. We discussed coping mechanisms, relaxation techniques, and the importance of a healthy sleep schedule (which, thanks to the medication, was about as regular as a drunken sailor). As I left the office, the crisp autumn air felt like a slap in the face, momentarily clearing the fog in my head.
Across the street, I spotted Molly with some other girl beside her, her eyes sparkling with the same light I'd accused my mother of harbouring. The feeling of betrayal, sharp and unexpected, sliced through me. Why was she so happy when her father was having an affair with a new widow? How can she be so happy when I'm not?
Then suddenly it occurred to me, what I was doing.
Was it contagious? This suspicion, this need to find fault? Or was I just seeing shadows where none existed?
Heaving a sigh, I crossed the street, the warmth of the coffee shop beckoning me. Maybe a double shot of espresso was a better-coping mechanism than dwelling on intrusive thoughts.
Maybe it wasn't about catching my mother red-handed, but about catching a glimpse of the man I was becoming, the paranoid mess I desperately wanted to avoid.
The bell above the door chimed as I entered, allowing me to comfortably diffuse into my bitter thoughts, drinking my bitter coffee.