Drove My Stepmother Insane

Dr. Franklin Prescott was a saint in the eyes of the public. To the medical world, he was a pioneering savior, a man of profound mercy.

But to me, he was a monster. He was the man who drove my mother mad and tossed his wife and daughter aside like garbage.

Thirty years ago, on a rainy night, my mother caught him in bed with his mistress. The very next morning, she was bound in a straightjacket and hauled off to an asylum.

By the time she was finally released, her mind was completely shattered. She ended up giving birth to my younger brother under a cold concrete bridge. I was only six years old when I had to shoulder the weight of our ruined lives.

I clawed my way up from the dirt, fighting through the dark until I became the chief psychiatric expert at this very hospital.

And today, a very special patient was referred to my clinic.

It was Tyler Prescott, the golden boy Franklin had with the mistress who successfully usurped my mothers place. Tyler had gone drag-racing while wasted, plowing into a crowded bus stop and killing over a dozen people. Now, he was lounging in my office, expecting me to sign off on a forged psychiatric evaluation to get him off the hook.

The hospital board has been breathing down my neck, demanding I cooperate.

But none of them know that I have been waiting for this exact day for thirty years.

Inside the evaluation room, I kept my eyes on the thick file in my hands.

Across from me, a young man in his early twenties sat on the leather sofa, one leg crossed over the other. He kept his head down, scrolling through his phone, occasionally letting out a soft, mocking chuckle. He did not have a care in the world.

"Look, Dr. Brooks, lets not dance around this." Tyler pulled a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills from his designer bag and slapped it onto my desk. "Just make the report a little vague. Say I suffer from intermittent blackouts. Do that, and this cash is yours."

Tyler Prescott. He was the precious son of my hypocrite father, Franklin, and his mistress, Brenda.

Three days ago, Tyler had drunk-driven a heavily modified sports car through a red light downtown. He smashed right into a crowded bus stop, killing four people instantly and leaving nine critically injured.

The tragedy sparked outrage across the city. Yet, Tyler had spent less than twenty-four hours in holding before being released on bail. The excuse was a suspected psychiatric episode that required a forensic evaluation.

And the doctor assigned to write that evaluation was me.

I closed the folder and looked him in the eye. "Tyler, based on all your test results, your mental state is completely normal. I will not sign off on a falsified evaluation to excuse your crimes."

"What did you just say?"

"I think I made myself clear."

The lazy smirk vanished from Tyler's face, replaced by a sudden, ugly rage. He slammed his hands on the desk and stood up, sending the stack of bills scattering across the floor. A few notes drifted onto my white lab coat.

"Don't play the saint with me!" his voice rose to a harsh shout. "My dad is Franklin Prescott. You better think long and hard about whether you want to disrespect his name."

I looked down at the bills on the floor and remained still.

He took a step closer, his tone turning smug. "Listen, Dr. Brooks, the alcohol in my system is long gone. If you quietly edit the report, no one will ever know."

"You took over a dozen lives."

"They shouldn't have been standing there," he shrugged, entirely indifferent. "I'll tell you one more time: my dad is Franklin Prescott. A woman with no backing doesn't climb to chief of psychiatry easily. You should know when to take a helping hand."

His eyes slowly slid from my face down to my collar. "But hey, if you want to play nice with me instead, I'm down. I'm not picky."

I stared at his face.

The brow, the bridge of his nose, the curl of his lip, he looked exactly like a young Franklin. He possessed the same condescending arrogance Franklin had shown thirty years ago when he ruined my mother with a single, casual sentence.

It made my stomach turn.

I picked up the bills that had landed on my coat, placed them back on the desk, and pushed them toward him. "Your father was the one who insisted on inviting the media to witness this process. Every major step of this evaluation has been recorded on video and audio. My conclusion is based entirely on objective medical data. There is no room for negotiation."

Right on cue, the office door was pushed open.

Three journalists carrying heavy camera gear filed into the room, and the red recording lights flickered to life.

"Good afternoon, everyone. We are live from the hospital for Tyler Prescotts psychiatric evaluation results..."

Tyler had clearly not expected me to actually go through with it.

Facing the cameras, I calmly laid out the evaluation process, the tests administered, and the raw data. Then, I delivered the final blow.

"The subject, Tyler Prescott, shows no signs of cognitive or psychiatric impairment. He is fully competent to stand trial."

"His decision to drive under the influence was a deliberate act. There are no psychological factors that would limit his understanding of his actions or his control over them."

The live chat on the broadcast erupted.

Tyler jumped to his feet, knocking his chair back with a loud screech. "You're going to regret this! Just wait, my dad is going to ruin you!"

He shoved a camera out of his way and stormed out of the office. A reporter tried to follow him for a comment, but Tyler kicked the microphone out of her hand.

I stood there, watching his shadow disappear down the hallway.

Thirty years have passed. I wonder if my dear father will finally recognize his own daughter. And I wonder if he will remember the woman he broke.

As soon as the broadcast ended, I was summoned to the director's office.

"Audrey, you are one of our brightest young minds, you have a brilliant future ahead of you," Director Crawford said, slamming his teacup onto his mahogany desk. "Do you have any idea who Franklin Prescott is? He is the Vice President of the Medical Association. He chairs three major journals. He practically wrote the state guidelines for psychiatry. If he asks you for a minor favor, you take the exit he offers. Why on earth did you have to pull a stunt like that on a live broadcast?"

I stood straight before him. "Director Crawford, the evaluation is based on facts. He committed a crime, and he should face the law."

Crawford slammed his hand on the desk. "He ran people over, which is a matter for the police and the courts! Since when is it a psychiatrist's job to play judge and executioner?"

"Forensic evaluation is part of the legal process. If anyone doubts my findings, they are welcome to request a secondary evaluation through the proper channels."

"You're lecturing me on the proper channels?" Crawford scoffed, temporarily speechless.

He knew as well as I did that the state randomly assigns forensic evaluators to prevent tampering. Even with all their influence, they couldn't bypass the system easily.

"Audrey, it's good for young people to have principles, but you can't fight a brick wall. Go apologize to Franklin. Soften the wording of the report, and we can make this go away. He is not someone you want as an enemy."

"The report stays as it is."

Crawford took a deep, trembling breath. "Then you are suspended. Leave your keys and stay out of the ward until this is resolved."

I turned and walked out.

By that evening, the internet was flooded with targeted articles about me.

#AudreyBrooksEvaluationControversy

#InsiderExposesAudreyBrooks

A prominent tabloid account posted a scathing update:

"An anonymous source reveals that Dr. Audrey Brooks, a young psychiatrist who rose through the ranks via questionable connections, targeted Tyler Prescott after he rejected her personal advances."

Attached was a cropped photo from an academic conference a few years ago, edited to make it look like Tyler and I were sharing an intimate moment.

The caption read: "If I can't have you, I'll destroy you?"

The comment section went wild.

How is this woman even allowed to practice medicine?

No wonder she wouldn't sign the papers. She was just mad she couldn't bag a rich guy.

Disgusting. She's using her position for a personal vendetta. Investigation needed.

Then came the coordinated wave of fabricated scandals.

Someone posted "wild photos" of me at a nightclub, which were actually heavily edited pictures from a department karaoke night three years ago, with my clothes photoshopped to look provocative. Others targeted my academic record, claiming I had plagiarized my thesis, using the records of another student with a similar name.

They even forged a text message exchange showing me negotiating a bribe with a patient's family.

The comments grew viler by the minute.

With a face like that, no wonder he turned her down.

A psychiatrist? She looks like she belongs in a ward herself.

She needs to be fired before she hurts anyone else.

The next morning, a crowd of strangers was waiting for me outside the hospital gates.

People thrust their phones into my face, recording me, while others deliberately bumped into me. One man waved a consultation slip, sneering, "Hey, Dr. Brooks, my head feels a bit funny. Why don't you give me a private exam?"

The security guards barely managed to push them back.

Meanwhile, Franklin Prescott granted an exclusive interview to a major news outlet.

He wore his white lab coat, his hair perfectly coiffed with silver at the temples, his expression heavy with sorrow.

"As an elder in the medical community, I don't wish to criticize a junior colleague. However, forensic psychiatry is about human freedom and reputation. When personal emotions are allowed to dictate a professional evaluation, it damages our entire industry."

He never mentioned my name. But everyone knew who he was talking about.

The comment section praised him.

"Dr. Prescott is a class act. He's still defending the profession after being targeted like this."

"He has spent his life saving people. To see his son treated this way is heartbreaking."

"This is what happens when good people get taken advantage of."

By that afternoon, the hospital board issued a formal notice.

"In light of the severe negative public impact caused by Dr. Audrey Brooks, the board has determined that Dr. Brooks must deliver a formal apology to Professor Franklin Prescott within three days and revise Tyler Prescott's evaluation. Failure to comply will result in immediate termination."

The HR director hand-delivered the letter to me, adding a quiet warning. "Audrey, don't say I didn't warn you. This is your last chance."

I looked down at the thin sheet of paper.

A formal apology?

Perhaps it was indeed time to pay a visit to the man who ruined my mother's life.

The Prescott estate was nestled in the exclusive gated community in the eastern hills. The driveway was flanked by ancient, manicured pines that had reportedly cost a fortune to import.

When the housekeeper led me through the grounds, a lavish afternoon tea was laid out in the garden. Brenda was sitting with a group of wealthy socialites, chatting over fine china.

"Brenda, you and Dr. Prescott are truly a fairytale couple," a woman with a round face gushed. "After all these years, he still dotes on you."

Brenda sighed, putting on a show of elegant melancholy. "Well, we had our share of trials. His first wife was... unstable, to say the least. She put poor Franklin through so much pain."

"Oh, really? Was it that bad?"

"It was dreadful," Brenda shook her head. "She lost her mind right after they married. Screaming, throwing things. Franklin was kind enough to pay for her treatment, but she escaped the facility. She took the kids and vanished. Franklin spent years looking for them."

"How tragic. Dr. Prescott is such a saint to have endured that."

"Exactly. Brenda, you are the one who truly stood by him through the hard times."

My fingernails dug deep into the palms of my hands.

Brenda. Thirty years ago, she was just a shampoo girl at a cheap salon near our apartment complex. Now, she was the lady of the manor.

Drugged into madness. Sent away out of kindness. Escaped.

Every word out of her mouth was a calculated lie.

When Franklin had nothing, it was my mother who married him against her parents' wishes, cutting ties with her own family to support his dreams. For years, Franklin didn't bring home a single dime, leaving my mother to work triple shifts at a textile factory to keep us fed.

When my mothers parents passed away, Franklin went as far as to block her phone calls, ensuring she never got to say goodbye.

And the moment he gained status and wealth, he turned around and slept with a salon girl.

When my mother discovered the truth, she didn't get an apology. She got hauled off to an asylum, injected with experimental sedatives, and systematically driven out of her mind.

Brenda raised her teacup, pretending to notice me just then. She tilted her head, her gaze sweeping over me with cold disdain, before turning to the maid. "Martha, you must be getting old. Since when do we let stray dogs into the garden?"

The other women smothered their snickers behind their silk napkins.

I kept my voice perfectly level. "Brenda, I am here to see Franklin. Tell him I'm here."

"See Franklin?" Brenda arched an eyebrow. "My husband is busy. Come back another day."

Before she could finish, footsteps echoed from the veranda.

Tyler stepped down the stairs, dressed in designer loungewear, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He paused when he saw me, then let out a loud, mocking laugh.

"Well, well. If it isn't Dr. Brooks."

He ambled over, hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking down at me with supreme satisfaction. "Regretting your little stunt now?"

"It would have been so much easier if you had just listened to me in the first place," he said, flicking his collar. "But in the end, you still have to crawl back and beg for mercy."

He turned and called out to Brenda, "Hey Mom, I'm heading out!"

He brushed past me, deliberately slamming his shoulder into mine as he walked toward a brand-new Porsche parked in the driveway. The car he used to kill those people was still impounded, yet he already had a replacement.

The engine roared to life, and he drove off as if he hadn't a care in the world.

I clenched my fists and took a step toward the house.

"Dr. Brooks?"

A deep, commanding voice called out from behind me.

I turned.

Franklin Prescott stood there, dressed in a grey cashmere cardigan, his silver hair perfectly styled. He looked at the scene in the garden, bid a polite farewell to his guests, and gestured for me to follow him into his study.

The walls of his study were lined with photographs of him shaking hands with city officials and prestigious medical boards. Below them sat rows of trophies.

The largest trophy in the center was engraved with the words: To a Healer of Great Mercy.

The moment the heavy oak door clicked shut, his elegant demeanor vanished.

"Audrey, I've looked into your file," he said, crossing his fingers on the desk. "Making chief at thirty-two is an impressive feat. You are a smart girl. You must know what this evaluation report means for your career."

He opened a drawer and slid a thick envelope across the desk.

"Inside is a formal nomination for the state medical board, along with two prestigious offers from private clinics. If you help me with this minor issue, all of this is yours. I will also personally see to it that the online rumors about you disappear."

I didn't move.

His voice softened, taking on a warm, paternal tone. "Tyler is my only son. I am getting old, and he is my legacy. As a doctor, surely you can understand a father's heart."

"I understand you have a younger brother, and your mothers mental health is... precarious. You of all people should know that a father will do absolutely anything to protect his child."

He had investigated me. He knew about my brother, my mother, and where we lived.

But he still had no idea who I actually was.

I reached into my pocket and quietly pressed the record button on my device. "Dr. Prescott, the report stands. If you want to fire me, go ahead."

Franklin had expected me to bow my head. Seeing me defy him, his paternal mask cracked, and he slammed his hand onto the desk as he stood up.

"You are a woman with no family, no backing, and no influence. Do you honestly think you can survive in this industry if you cross me?"

I reached for the door handle, not bothering to look back.

"You can certainly try to stop me."

As I stepped out, the sound of a heavy crystal glass shattering against the mahogany desk echoed behind me.

In the garden, Brenda was still laughing with her friends, bragging about how her husband was the most honorable man in the city.

The retaliation was swift.

The next morning, when I tried to scan my badge at the hospital entrance, the turnstile let out a sharp, grating beep.

Access Denied.

A security guard approached me, looking apologetic. "Dr. Brooks, the administration has terminated your employment effective immediately. You are no longer permitted on the premises."

I stared at the red light on the scanner for a second, then turned on my heel.

When I got back to my small apartment and opened my phone, the internet was already ablaze with new details.

They had dug up my mother's medical history.

Audrey Brooks' mother, Margaret Brooks, was diagnosed with severe schizophrenia thirty years ago.

How can we trust a psychiatrist whose own mother is mentally unstable? Is madness hereditary?

She should be evaluated herself before she hurts her patients.

Worse still, someone had leaked my home address.

A small crowd of people with cameras was already gathered outside my building. One man shouted at my window, "Crazy Margaret! Your daughter is a criminal! Come out!"

I pushed through the crowd, slipped inside, and immediately drew the heavy curtains shut.

My brother, Toby, was holding our mothers hand, his face pale. "Audrey, what do we do?"

My mother was curled into a tight ball in the corner, her hands over her ears, shaking violently. The shouting from the street and the word "crazy" had dragged her straight back to that sterile, white room from thirty years ago.

"I'm not sick... please... I'm sorry... don't send me back... don't give me the shots..."

My heart felt as if it were being squeezed by a cold hand.

"Mom," I knelt before her, gently taking her trembling hands in mine. "You are not sick, and you did nothing wrong. I promise you, I am going to make him pay."

My mother looked at me, a rare spark of clarity returning to her hollow eyes. She reached out and touched my cheek with a shaking hand. "Audrey... I trust you."

I opened my desk drawer and pulled out my notebook, my mother's original marriage certificate, and the audio recording device.

On the television, Tyler was giving another high-profile interview. He sat before the cameras, flashing a smug grin as he held up a stamped document.

"The previous evaluation was deeply flawed. I have received a proper diagnosis from an accredited private clinic proving I suffer from intermittent cognitive impairment. I will be cleared of all charges shortly. Thank you all for your support."

I dialed a number on my phone.

"I'm ready. Come pick me up."

An hour later, I arrived at the broadcasting studio in a police cruiser.

Tyler had just finished his interview and was walking out of the lobby, surrounded by his assistants and bodyguards.

When he saw me, he smirked. "Told you so, Dr. Brooks. You couldn't stop me even if you tried..."

But his smirk died the second he saw the badges flashing behind me.