15 They Talked About Me, Not To Me

The shift didn’t happen all at once. It was subtle. Steady. More a slow closing door than a slammed one.

The interference wasn’t just frequent. It felt deliberate. Every effort I made to protect consistency, safety, and warmth in our home was interrupted, challenged, or reinterpreted. Often just enough to make me doubt myself, but not enough to raise outside concerns.

But that’s exactly what made it so painful. The pressure didn’t come all at once. It built quietly through small changes, silences, and guarded moments. I saw it happening, even when I wished I weren’t.

I was watching the shift.

Sometimes when I spoke with them, there was a sharpness that felt rehearsed. Not an attitude, but different. A borrowed tone, like the words were meant to prove something to someone who wasn’t me. It wasn’t how we used to communicate. I knew it didn’t come from nowhere, but I also knew that pushing back would only make things worse.

Other times, they withdrew. The silences grew longer. The distance became harder to bridge. This wasn’t indifference. More like a quiet retreat from emotional risk.

And behind it all, I began to understand where it was coming from. I overheard the adults talking about me. Not the kids, the adults.

Private conversations. Offhand jokes. Gossip that wasn’t subtle. I heard my name spoken like it didn’t belong to me. Dismissive. Cold. Those words weren’t meant for me, but the kids heard enough to sense the message. Enough to internalize it.

I asked the adults to stop. Several times. Calmly. Directly. I reminded them others were listening. I said it wasn’t healthy. I even told the kids to try to ignore it, not to take it personally.

But it didn’t stop.

That refusal wasn’t just careless. It was hurtful. Because it didn’t just affect me. It affected the kids.

It sent a message that disrespect is acceptable if enough people agree on the target. They weren’t being shielded from conflict. They were being caught in it.

And it wasn’t just him. Some family members joined in too. They didn’t just stand by. They spoke in ways that felt dismissive or mocking. They said things to the kids no child should have to carry.

What they didn’t know, what the kids might not have fully understood, is that I was still trying to protect him. I still kept his wrongdoings from them. I told the kids to try to ignore what was said about me. I said it wasn’t personal. I said it didn’t define us.

But it did matter.

Because when the people who are supposed to care for you encourage you to look down on your mother, something inside you fractures. And when that same mother tells you to rise above it, to pretend it doesn’t hurt, it creates emotional conflict no one should have to manage.

And that kind of confusion doesn’t just hurt in the moment. It changes how to understand love. It teaches mistrust of instinct. It teaches caution around connection. It teaches that safety can feel like silence.

The damage doesn’t stop when the voices quiet. It echoes in relationships, in the parts of themselves they hide, in the way loyalty and self-erasure get mixed.

That’s a heavy cost no one on that side seemed willing to face. All of this was happening, and I was still the one enforcing rules, curfews, and homework. The double burden was exhausting.

While the interference kept growing, I stayed consistent. I followed every trauma-informed recommendation I could find. I sought guidance from professionals because I refused to wing it with their well-being.

But even that was interfered with. My efforts were questioned, second-guessed, and undermined by people who weren’t in the room, didn’t ask, and didn’t care to understand. I wasn’t just trying, I was doing the work. Even with the system stacked against me, I stayed focused on what was right.

All the while, he was living with his parents. No clear responsibilities outside himself. And yet somehow, I was the one painted as unstable. He was free to judge from a place of comfort, surrounded by people who would support his version of the story.

But I faced it. I saw it happening in real time. And I tried, every step of the way, to absorb what I could so they didn’t have to. I didn’t match negativity with negativity. I tried to keep the door open even as they tried to close it.

Even families of people who cause harm often say, “We love them. But we don’t excuse this.” They can hold both. But what happened here felt different.

They didn’t just defend family. They normalized the damage. They twisted the story until rejecting me became a sign of loyalty. And the kids were pressured to prove that loyalty again and again.

That kind of environment wears on you emotionally. It teaches people to silence their inner voice just to stay included. They stopped asking, “Is this good for the kids?” and started asking, “Does this protect the story we want?”

Because even when I was treated like the enemy, I never stopped seeing the kids as worth protecting. I didn’t give them silence because I had nothing to say. I gave them space because I refused to make them choose.

And maybe it didn’t look like enough. Maybe from the outside it looked like passivity. But it wasn’t. It was restraint. It was love. It was the kind of parenting that doesn’t get applause in the moment but matters in the long run.

So if you’re reading this someday and wondering whether any of it was real, if the love was real, if the effort was real, if you were worth all of it, the answer is yes. Always yes.

You were never the enemy. You were the reason I kept going. Even when it cost me everything, I stayed steady.

Because you were worth the truth. Still are.

Always.

Disclaimer Reminder: This blog reflects my personal experiences, perspectives, and memories. It is not intended to harass, defame, or target any individual. If you see yourself in this and feel uncomfortable, self-reflection is always an option. Discomfort doesn’t make it untrue.