On the drive home, aching for Roger, with whom I’d had so little time, and feeling confused by the events of the day, I contemplated my failure. I hadn’t been able to make Roger compelling or otherwise promote his case to the staff. As I mulled it over, I realized the resident hadn’t really much cared about my version of the story. I’d become a “family member” in her parlance: I was part and parcel of Roger, who was a “patient.” Roger now lived on the other side of the glass window, spoken about and not spoken to, and we, his family, had been moved to the other side, too. We were objects for the professionals’ study. We belonged to them in some way. They had rights to us, to our experiences, to our information. I’d given the psychiatric resident our story, sort of, but she had telescoped it into her preferred format and formula. Hers was the version that mattered; in Roger’s files, her story would be written over ours. Slowly, the insult sank in.