11 The Missing Adult
The damage could soon no longer be softened by excuses. Something deeper was unraveling. What I was seeing didn’t match who I knew they were. They were drowning in something much bigger than impulse.
They were navigating total chaos without a compass. And the adult who should have helped them steer was too busy protecting his narrative to lead.
From my perspective, there were no rules. No accountability. No structure. Just indulgence dressed up as connection. Being the preferred one must have been easy because it came with no cost. No expectations. No hard conversations. Just open doors, late nights, and a narrative that painted me as the problem.
Soon, it felt like love for him meant loyalty against me.
When I pushed back, he used it. Without full context, he would selectively share my messages and present them like evidence. There were then things similar to, ‘See? She’s bitter. She’s controlling.’ There was never any mention of the part where I was asking for safety or trying to set boundaries.
There were never reminders that respect should be offered on both sides. Never stepped in to say, ‘That’s not right.’ or ‘Be respectful.’ Never let them realize things like, ‘She’s not the enemy.’
That spoke volumes.
Intentional or not, it deepened the trauma bond.
When I tried to have a gentle conversation that it’s best for all of us to move forward in a positive way, the reaction confirmed what I had suspected. They had been prepped. Fed a version of events where I had simply walked away. Abandoned the family. Left their father broken.
But that wasn’t the truth.
He had been living a life outside of ours for years. A different reality long before I ever made a decision. I wasn’t the one who brought strangers into our finances. I wasn’t the one who checked out and called it freedom.
Still, they defended him. Not because they fully believed everything, but because they seemed trained to.
They knew that me moving forward would hurt him. And so, they turned that pain toward me.
It was surreal to watch.
They traded their childhood for his wounds. Not by choice, but by design.
And he let them.
He rewarded loyalty, even when it came at the cost of their own clarity. He praised them for keeping him informed. He let them believe that sharing private details was love and that boundaries were rejection. He never corrected them. He never said, “That’s not yours to hold.” He used their confusion as fuel and to win their allegiance.
All while stepping back from any meaningful responsibility.
Integrity was a foreign concept to him.
I was painted as cold for not performing the version of motherhood that made him feel better about himself. And yet, I was the one holding the thread. Saying no to unsafe plans. Keeping the door open without losing my footing.
And through all of this, I wasn’t alone. One person stood beside me. He didn’t offer platitudes. He didn’t disappear when it got hard. He stayed. Steady. Present. Not rescuing, but showing up.
While one adult stayed lost in a story that made him the victim, another stayed rooted in truth.
That contrast mattered.
Because emotional laundering doesn’t just damage relationships. It reprograms how you see yourself. That love feels like anxiety. That honesty is punishment.
But the truth doesn’t expire.
And I still live in it.
Even when it hurts. Even when I’m misunderstood. Even when the people I love can’t see it yet.
Because I know what was real. And I know what love is not.
If you ever wondered how it got to the point where I became the villain in someone else’s script, it wasn’t by accident.
It was taught. But it can be unlearned.
And one day, I hope they realize that.
This is my personal account and reflection.