He snaps, "It matters! It matters a great deal."
Mom presses her napkin into her lap. Her voice trembles. "Sweetheart, there are ethics involved here. Professional boundaries. This isn't like meeting someone at a dinner party."
I feel heat crawl up my neck. "I know that."
"Do you?" Dad asks, lowering his voice.
The humiliation hits me like I'm fifteen again and being scolded for something reckless. Except I'm not reckless. I'm in love.
Through gritted teeth, I reply, "Yes. I understand, and I'll remind you that I'm an adult."
Dad leans forward, pressing his forearms on the table. "An adult who entered into a relationship with a man who was responsible for her mental health."
"He didn't manipulate me!" I burst out, louder than I mean to.
A couple at the neighboring table glances over.
Mom's eyes widen. "Let's try to stay calm."
"I'm not being manipulated," I say, quieter but no less fierce. "You don't know him the way I do."
Dad gives a humorless laugh. "I know enough."
The wine in my glass suddenly tastes sour. My chest tightens, and I realize I'm gripping the stem too hard. I accuse, "You think I'm fragile. You think I'm incapable of making my own decisions."
Dad replies, "This has nothing to do with fragility. It has to do with power."
I insist, "There is no power imbalance. Not like that."
"He has authority over you."
"He respects me."
"He should have terminated therapy the moment feelings entered the equation."
I shoot back, "He did! He created distance. He protected me."
Dad's face darkens. "Protected you from what? Himself?"
The implication hits like a punch. My throat burns. "You're twisting this."
Mom's strained voice interjects, "Blue, how long were you seeing him before this became…something else?"
I open my mouth, then close it. The timeline sounds worse when spoken aloud.
It sounds like exactly what they're accusing him of.
"That's not the point," I say.
"It is the point," Dad counters.
The restaurant suddenly feels too small. The lighting that felt intimate now suffocates me. Emotions fill my voice. "You don't get to judge something you haven't even tried to understand. You haven't met him in a nonprofessional capacity."
"I don't need to," Dad says flatly.
That's when it truly sinks in. He's already decided. There's no room for persuasion. No curiosity. No benefit of the doubt. Just a wall.
Mom reaches across the table and gently touches my hand. "Honey, we love you. That's why this is so concerning."
