case review

by Kathryn Reese

There’s a large table, the sort made of several smaller tables pushed together. There are plastic chairs, the sort no-one is comfortable in. There are people—professional, the sort you see in coffee queues, the sort who take notes in meetings.

The only empty chair is the one next to my ex. My daughter is on his other side, hiding behind her hair.

The psychiatry registrar is opposite me. He’d seemed ok, when he took the family history, asking me to supply dates and names of doctors and medications. Seemed genuine. Sympathetic. Maybe his RM Williams boots had me believing he really was from the country and maybe really did understand what it is to drive twelve hours without stopping—even though I know very well RM Williams boots are like Range Rovers, never leaving town. He’s leaning back in his plastic chair, watching me, 3pm fatigue carved into his face.

A blonde woman is introducing herself. I should have kept notes. I don’t remember who she is.

The purpose of the meeting is to agree on a treatment plan. The first thing to be agreed is that further treatment is futile. Therapy only works when a kid is ready.

I can’t see my kid, my ex is in the way.

The psych reg is typing on his phone. Taking notes, or checking emails.

I thought therapy for kids was like feeding stray cats. You keep offering and let them take what they need. In time, they’ll work it out. But I suppose if it was that bleach-blonde-with-washed-out-blue-tips lady that was offering therapy, I wouldn’t expect my dark-haired fighter of a girl to take much notice.

So, we’ve failed therapy. No-one is getting up. There must be more to this plan.

The senior doctor is talking. The psych reg hasn’t looked up from his phone. Funny how after driving twelve hours without stopping, strangers’ words sound just like road trains as you overtake—

I focus on the psych reg’s checkered shirt, the interwoven blue stripes.

“We understand you’ve been having a Difficult Time with your father,” the doctor states, nodding at me, so I nod back. “Your daughter thinks it would be better to stay with her father, for now. Stability, you understand.”

My ex beside me, blocking my view of my daughter. My daughter, the sort of fighter who hides behind her hair. The washed-out-blue-tips lady nodding. The professionals, the sort you would see in the coffee queue, taking notes, agreeing that this therapy-failure kid should decide what “stability” looks like. They are writing in their notes that I am unstable. My dad is dying, and I‘ve driven twelve hours non-stop to hear—

The senior doctor looks at me, asks me what I have to say.

The psych reg puts his phone down.

The senior doctor asks, again, what I have to say to my daughter.

Photo of Kathryn Reese

BIO: Kathryn Reese writes poetry & flash. She lives on Peramangk land in Adelaide, South Australia. She works in medical microbiology and enjoys solo road trips, hiking and chasing frogs to record their calls for science. Her poems can be found in The Engine Idling, Epistemic Literary, Crowstep and Red Room Poetry. Her flash are in Glassworks and 2025 Flash Flood. She was a winner of the Heroines Women’s Writing Prize 2024.