Leaving work that night, Sarah sighed as she listened to her latest voicemail: “Sarah, sweetie, it’s Dad. I’m sure you know what this is about, so I won’t belabor the point.” Molly had now enlisted their parents in her crusade. Great. “I want to respect your privacy, sweetie, but if your cognition is in question, then someone else has to step in to make sure things are OK. Anyway, I just wanted to pass along the name of a very well-regarded psychiatrist in New York that a friend recommended. His name is Dr. Robert Margolis, and he sees patients at NYU Langone. As of right now you have an appointment with him at 8 a.m. Monday morning. As a favor to me—your father who loves you very, very much—please at least go and speak to the man. It’ll be an hour out of your day, and it would be a great weight off my mind. I’m sure your therapist is wonderful, but even the best doctors can be wrong sometimes. Please, for your father, get this second opinion. Love you, sweetie. Talk soon.”
She saved the message and lowered her phone from her ear, staring at it as the screen went black and reflected her face back at her. She bit her lip and looked skyward, exhaling noisily. “Fine,” she said aloud. Fishing her work phone out of her bag, she clicked into her calendar and blocked out 8-9 a.m. next Monday morning.