12 She Got You Here Too Late

By the time a new year began, we were no longer living the same story. I was trying to maintain order but it was unraveling in chaos. I don’t blame them for that. They were dropped into an emotional wilderness with no map.

One of the first red flags of the year? The "online love interest" started texting me again.

Yes, the ghost of some fictional queen, king, or catfish collective decided to resurrect. The same recycled number popping back up. I still didn't know how deep the deception ran. The money lost. The shame. The collapse. 

He never told the full truth. Just enough to make me look like the problem.

Even when the system caught up with him, he couldn’t own it. His license had been revoked. That’s not just a minor inconvenience. It’s a legal issue. It meant he wasn’t allowed to drive. It meant putting them in a car with him was, by definition, unsafe. Illegal.

So I did what any responsible parent would do. I said no. I told them they couldn’t ride with him until it was sorted out.

He told them I was lying.

To prove it, he pulled the physical license from his wallet and held it up like a get-out-of-truth-free card. A way to say, “See? I still have it.” As if the state shows up at your house and physically confiscates your plastic. He knew better. Or maybe he didn’t. But either way, it felt like such a con.

I explained the difference between possession and permission. I explained that this wasn’t about controlling him. It was about protecting them.

Still, they were angry. At me.

Because I was the one drawing a line. I was the one “making a big deal.” I was the one interfering with their routine, their breakfasts, their access.

But I wasn’t the one breaking the law. I wasn’t the one putting them in danger.

He did that. And then he stepped back and let me take the heat for it.

That’s how the whole thing worked. He would create the problem. I would enforce a boundary. And somehow, I would become the villain. It was whiplash-inducing. And incredibly effective.

Still, they were mad at me. Because I had been honest.

Then, when he finally had to confess it was revoked after all, I pointed out that I hadn’t lied. He said something vague about not getting the notice. I remember seeing something shift in their eyes. Confusion cracking just a little.

But even then, it didn’t stick. Because that was how this entire dynamic worked.

Then came breakfast. He had no right to offer morning breakfasts, but he did anyway. No discussion. No coordination. Just declared it like a royal decree. When I resisted, I was the problem. So I gave in. Not because it made sense, but because I didn’t want to fight. I thought I was doing it for them.

Even that wasn’t enough.

He got careless. Didn’t show up some mornings. Forgot. Slept in. And when things didn’t go to plan, he made sure to spin it. “She got you here too late. Now we don’t have time to make muffins.” Said with a shrug, but designed to land. He offered breakfast on my time, then blamed me for the fallout. It was audacious. Exhausting. Invasive.

The breakfasts weren’t about bonding. They were about bypassing me.

A performance.

Another time, I was told they had to pick him up late from a bar in the early morning hours.

They didn’t question it. They covered for him. Defended it. Normalized it.

That’s what enmeshment does. That’s what parentification looks like. It teaches them that protecting a parent is love and silencing themselves is loyalty. That truth is betrayal.

I suggested we all sit down together and clear the air. Silence. Total avoidance. Not even a fake effort at resolution. Just continued chaos behind my back, with me expected to smile and keep functioning.

Meanwhile, some of his relatives started sending me social media requests. Over and over. No communication for months or years, and then suddenly repeated attempts to peer in. I finally blocked them. It wasn’t about reconnection. It was surveillance. No one reached out to ask what really happened. They just wanted a front-row seat to the unraveling.

All of it added up. The scammer. The breakfasts. The spiraling behavior. The false narratives. The lack of support. The family spies. The lies, the silence, the gaslighting. And through it all, I was working full-time, keeping the lights on, showing up with a smile.

It was a lot.

It seemed he never considered how emotionally damaging this was for them. Because he wasn’t protecting them. He was protecting himself.

Selfishness isn’t always about taking too much. Sometimes it’s about taking what doesn’t belong to you. Things like their  clarity. Their sense of safety. Their trust.

They lost part of their childhood trying to earn his validation. Not because they wanted to. Because they were taught that’s what love looked like.

At one point, I was even accused of stealing their childhood.

Curious accusation, considering I stayed longer than I should have, lived smaller than I wanted, and tolerated more than anyone should, all so they could have one.

I didn’t take their childhood. I was the one trying to shield it from collapse.

Looking back, I didn’t understand the full shape of what I was dealing with. I didn’t have the language for enmeshment or emotional manipulation. I just knew it felt like drowning in a current I didn’t create.

There was always this eerie sense of off. Like walking through a house where all the furniture had been rearranged slightly. Not enough to scream, but enough to unsettle. I kept second-guessing myself, thinking, this can’t really be happening. No one would do this. No one would be this reckless. Not to their own family.

But they would. And he did.

I tried to preserve their innocence. His focus was not on building them up and teaching them to be competent and independent young adults. It was self-preservation, at any cost.

And the cost was steep.

They didn’t just lose structure or guidance. They lost trust. Clarity. Safety. A version of childhood that wasn’t rigged around someone else’s pain.

But one day, I hope that story cracks.

And when it does, I want them to remember who told the truth.

And who never needed to be the favorite. Only safe.

Bonus Story

One day, someone in the house looked me straight in the eye and said, “You are who you hang out with.” The implication? That having a divorced friend must’ve rubbed off on me. Must’ve made me want to leave.

Hold the phone. I couldn’t believe it.

Because that exact scenario? It had already been happening, on his end. Long before anything fell apart. He was out regularly with a divorced friend who spent his nights swiping dating apps and hitting on waitresses. They’d joke about it. (more to that story too, but another time)

And somehow, I was the bad influence?

That’s not just hypocrisy. That’s projection, plain and simple. Blame me for what they were doing all along. And just hope no one notices.

This is my personal account and reflection.