Page 3 of Daddy Knows Best

T hursday. Four p.m. Like a death row inmate, I counted the minutes leading up to my own execution by therapy.

The office suite looked nothing like a dungeon. Soft blue light glowed from frosted sconces. There was a tiny waterfall on the check-in desk and the walls held tasteful photos of koi ponds, not Rorschach tests. It smelled faintly of lemongrass and dry-erase marker.

“First time?” The woman at the desk glanced up, glasses perched halfway down her nose. She was fifties, Latina, with lipstick the color of grenadine and a voice that could probably shush a rabid dog. The name badge read C. DELGADO, OFFICE MANAGER.

“Yeah. I’m—uh—Emily Carter. Four o’clock?”

She nodded, sliding a clipboard my way. “Welcome, Emily. Here’s your forms, just initial the starred parts. Dr. Whitlow runs right on time, so don’t wander off.”

No chance of that. My legs were full of cement.

I signed in, she gave me a patient folder and pointed to the waiting area. “Relax. Drink water. There’s snacks if you need.”

I clutched the packet to my chest and scanned the room.

Two armchairs, indigo velvet, each big enough to swallow a person whole.

A low table stacked with magazines: Psychology Today, GQ, Bon Appetit.

A toy kitchen set in one corner, kid-sized, the plastic stove crowded with wooden eggs and a loaf of bread.

I slid into a chair, exhaling through my nose in an attempt at mindfulness.

The velvet was too soft, the color too royal. I didn’t belong here.

My phone buzzed in my purse, setting off a full-body spasm. I fished it out, ignoring Sara’s seventh “you there?” text, and pulled up the Intake Confirmed email for the fifteenth time.

There it was again—the silver-and-navy crest at the top, some Latin motto I couldn’t parse, and the word Fiducia stamped below. The appointment slot was highlighted in the kind of yellow reserved for warning signs or chemical spills. It didn’t say what would happen if I chickened out.

My screen was still cluttered with tabs from last night’s panic research.

The first was a JSTOR article on “externalized reinforcement in impulse disorders”—I’d made it four sentences before my eyes glazed over.

Tab two: Reddit thread, /r/bdsmcommunity, “What’s your go-to safeword?

” Fifty-six comments. Half said “red,” the rest suggested something ridiculous like “bananas” or “Zoidberg.” Tab three was Yelp reviews.

Only two were for Dr. Whitlow. Both five-star.

Both raved about his ability to “cut to the chase” and “retrain bad habits fast.” One included a weird aside: “Ask about the crayons!” That was it. No horror stories, no exposés.

No stories, period.

Somehow that was worse.

I turned my attention to the patient folder. The first page was the usual HIPAA boilerplate. The next was a consent form in clinical, oddly blunt language. My thumb caught on a sticky note: Emily, please complete and return to front desk before intake. —C. Delgado

Preferred Safeword: _______.

I stared at the blank line like it might fill itself in. The word that came to mind—Sunshine—made me cringe. Cheesy, but at least it wouldn’t escape my lips by accident. I scribbled it in, then nearly tore the paper in half stuffing it back into the folder.

To keep my hands busy, I double-checked the folder. Last page: Goals for Treatment.

- Financial literacy

- Curbing impulse spending

- Healthy coping strategies

I hesitated, then added: Accountability. Structure. Maybe even the word Obedience, but I chickened out and left it at A and S.

“Ms. Carter?”

I jerked upright. Ms. Delgado stood at the threshold between lobby and back hallway, holding the door open. She smiled—not condescending, not smug, just warm, which was almost worse. “Dr. Whitlow is ready. Bring your forms, sweetheart.”

My knees went wobbly as I stood. The velvet chair seemed to grab my skirt, reluctant to let me leave. I smoothed my hair, tucked my phone away, and followed her down the hallway, the walls lined with more koi photos.

At the end was a heavy wooden door. Ms. Delgado rapped once, opened it, and gestured me in.

“He doesn’t bite,” she whispered. Then she winked, turned on her heel, and left me standing in the doorway, clutching the folder to my chest like a security blanket.

I took a breath, and stepped inside.

He was already standing—I got the impression he wasn’t one for sitting.

Six-foot-two, maybe more, built like the kind of runner who didn’t care about his finish time, just the ritual of it.

Navy shirt, sleeves rolled once at the forearms. Charcoal vest, tailored perfectly.

His skin was tan, and his beard was salt-and-pepper, trimmed to a science.

But it was the eyes that did me in: focused, yes, but with a warmth that made all sense fall out of my head.

“Ms. Carter?” His voice was lower than I’d imagined, a vibration more than a sound.

I managed a nod. “Doctor. Hi.”

He offered his hand, and I nearly dropped my folder getting to it. The handshake was deliberate, not the pump-and-release of a job interview. His palm was cool, but the grip held just enough pressure that my bones had to pay attention

“Please, call me Nate. Or Dr. Whitlow, if you prefer.” He released my hand, but not my pulse. “Have a seat, Ms. Carter.”

He gestured to the leather wingback opposite his desk.

The chair looked older than me, but it glowed in the amber light like it had a secret.

I perched on the edge, thighs clenched, as he rounded the desk and sat.

He didn’t check his watch, or shuffle papers, or even look at the computer.

Just leaned forward, elbows on the arms, and gave me his full attention.

The office was a study in quiet flex. Walnut shelves, a large Swiss cheese plant in the window, a thick, dark rug. There was a toddler-sized table near the wall, covered in scented markers and a tub of crayons. So the crayons in the online comments weren’t metaphorical—he had actual crayons.

He caught me looking. “I keep them for clients who benefit from tactile engagement. Would you like some?”

“Oh, uh, I’m good.” Why did my voice go up two octaves? “I’m—fine.” My hands were already twisting the patient folder into a tube.

“Then let’s review your intake.” He steepled his fingers. “I see you’ve consented to my behavioral accountability program.” The words rolled out like rain. “Any questions before we begin?”

“I don’t think so?” It came out as a question. For some reason, I felt like he was the only one qualified to answer any questions here.

His gaze dipped to the folder in my lap. “May I?”

I handed it over, our fingers brushing. I tried not to imagine his hands anywhere else.

He scanned my paperwork, humming once in approval. “You’ve chosen Sunshine as your safeword. Good—simple, and not likely to come up in casual speech.”

I didn’t trust myself to answer. I focused on the banker’s lamp, the way it glowed gold and green, making the whole office feel like autumn.

“Let’s start simple,” he said. “You tell me what brings you here.”

That was the million-dollar question. Almost literally. Sara had coached me to be honest, but the words turned to glue.

“I spend money I don’t have,” I blurted. “It’s like—I know it’s wrong, but I can’t stop. I want to, but the wanting isn’t enough. It’s not like I don’t try—there’s budgets, and apps, and advice, but none of it sticks. I just . . . fall back into it.”

His expression didn’t shift, but something in the air did.

“Impulse control,” he said, confirming what I’d just admitted. “How long has this been an issue?”

I thought back to the Silk & Sass incident, the years of hiding purchases in my closet, the low-level dread that bloomed every time I opened a credit card bill. “Since college, maybe longer. But it’s gotten worse the last year.”

“Any particular trigger?”

I shrugged, twisting my hands together. “Loneliness, I guess. Stress? Sometimes just boredom. Other times, almost nothing.”

He nodded, jotting something on a yellow legal pad. “Have you ever worked with a therapist before?”

“Not since the campus counseling center.” I risked a glance up. “It didn’t do much.”

“Different approaches work for different people. You won’t have done anything like this before.” He set the pen aside. “What is it you hope to get from this process?”

Control. Structure. Permission to stop being the screw-up for once.

“Just . . . not being a disaster? Maybe to stop hating myself every time I buy something I don’t need.”

A tiny line formed between his brows, gone in an instant. “You’re not a disaster, Ms. Carter. You’re a person with a habit. Habits can be changed. Sometimes it takes more than willpower.”

He leaned back, eyes never leaving mine. “That’s what we’ll do here. Change the pattern. But it requires honesty, vulnerability, and commitment to the process. Not everyone is prepared to do that.”

The warning was clear: back out now if you’re a coward.

“I’m in,” I said, before my brain could overrule my mouth.

He smiled again, this time with the corners of his eyes. “Good. Then let’s get you set up.”

He stood, crossed to a low file cabinet, and retrieved a leather-bound portfolio. He moved like he knew every inch of the space, like he’d measured and approved every object in it. He set the folder on the desk between us and opened it with a satisfying snap.

Inside was a single-page contract, thick paper, sharp black print. I didn’t need to read it to know I’d already agreed. Still, he slid it over and tapped the line at the bottom.

“Review, then sign. Afterward, we’ll establish your first week’s ground rules.”

I picked up the pen. I read through the document, taking in the guidelines he’d laid out for how to manage my money. Deliberate barriers, a notebook to record spending, other, sensible stuff. My hand shook, just a little, but I signed. It felt like jumping off a bridge.

His eyes met mine as I handed the pen back. “Welcome to your new beginning, Emily.”