13 Abdication

The unraveling wasn’t just visible anymore. It was loud. Constant.

The kinds of problems you can’t wallpaper over with a few photos or a forced smile. But I tried. Desperately. I kept trying to hold things together for their sake even, especially, when it was clear I was the only one trying.

There were still appointments. I still packed bags, covered the household, kept the schedule moving. But something had shifted. He was nowhere to be found when things got real. A serious concern would come up and I’d reach out, hoping for even the bare minimum of partnership.

He wouldn’t respond. And if he did, it was dismissive. Avoidant. Indifferent.

He refused to talk directly with me about anything serious because of who I was with. As if my relationship somehow excused his absence. As if his discomfort mattered more than their safety.

Again, a pattern. He had opinions about everything until something required effort. If I brought up boundaries, a crisis, even basic logistics, he'd vanish. Or claim it “wasn’t my partner’s business.” And then others started parroting him almost word for word.

Meanwhile, his focus stayed on performance: smile for a selfie, crack a joke, offer breakfast. But what I needed was for him to show up, take responsibility, and parent.

And while everything around us was spinning out, he somehow made room for someone else entirely. Not a therapist or a mentor, but just another adult who needed caretaking. A friend with no stable housing, possible health concerns, and no reason to be living in a home with them. But he moved in. I raised it gently, not as an attack but a real concern. He wouldn't even address something as simple as a time frame. He brushed it off. No explanation, no conversation, no acknowledgment of the risk.

Once again, other people’s comfort outweighed their safety. Their wellbeing was negotiable. His friend’s convenience was not.

And that left me as the only one doing the actual parenting. Setting curfews. Having hard conversations. Trying to help them feel safe in a home that wasn’t built around secrets, denial, and avoidance.

It was brutal. Like shouting into a void.

They didn’t always like me for it. Another trap. When one checks out and the other steps up, the one who steps up becomes the obstacle. They don’t see what was stolen from them. They only feel what’s being enforced now. It’s not their fault. They were fed a version that taught them to stay quiet, avoid conflict, and never make anyone uncomfortable.

Still, I kept trying. I took the phones when I had to. Said no to dangerous overnights. Sat in the tension. Had the long talks. Got yelled at. Cried in the laundry room. Then came back out the next morning to make sure they got to school.

I bent over backwards to soften the chaos. Bit my tongue when I wanted to scream. Not because I didn’t feel the anger, but because I didn’t want them carrying more weight than they already were. I didn’t always know the right answer. I just knew I had to keep trying to find it.

That month was a blur of warning signs: risky behavior, cover stories, midnight pickups, contradictions, silence. He refused to intervene. Justified it by saying over there “wasn’t my business.” Technically, it wasn’t. But I wasn’t trying to control anything. I was trying to stop the bleeding.

He redirected all accountability. And all the while, an unstable presence remained there.

That’s why I kept reaching across the chaos. Not to control but to protect what was left of their trust, their clarity, their safety. I didn’t always get it right. But I never walked away from them. Not once.

And then the backlash came. I overheard a conversation where one of them was trying to share their feelings.

Their voice so small it barely carried. His response? “After everything I let you do...” Then the escalation. A raised voice. Shifting the blame back to them and then angry I had to be involved.  Because interacting with me was intolerable.

This isn’t parenting. It’s punishment for speaking. It conditions them to believe that discomfort equals disloyalty. That being honest leads to rejection. Eventually, kids stop opening up. Not because they don’t feel, but because they’ve learned it’s dangerous to show it.

That kind of silence might look like maturity. It might pass for obedience. But it’s not peace. It’s collapse.

And the damage doesn’t stay in that one relationship. It spreads. It spreads into friendships, boundaries, romantic choices, even their own sense of self. They start bracing before they speak. Editing themselves in real time. Carrying the belief that love is conditional, and expression is betrayal.

That’s how emotional abuse hides in plain sight. That’s how confusion becomes a weapon.

Even when everything else was collapsing, I started to understand how the confusion itself was the point.

If anyone got too close to the truth, throw a tantrum. Shift the story. Blame someone else. Confuse the timelines. Keep everyone guessing until no one remembers what normal feels like anymore.

If someone makes you feel guilty for being hurt, if telling the truth gets you punished, that’s not love. That’s a betrayal of your reality. And I’m sorry you were taught otherwise.


Bonus Story
There was a time I told him flat out to stop lending money to a friend. It was a bad pattern, and he knew it. He nodded, acted like he got it. Promised it wouldn’t happen again.

It did. Just not directly.

Later, I found out he started moving money through one of the kids. One day, the kid, completely unaware, said, “I’ll just give it to Mom.” Instant panic. “No, don’t tell Mom. Don’t give it to Mom.”

Shameful. Not only was he still funneling money to that friend, he was now using a child to do it all the while begging them to hide it from me.

That friend? The same one he swore off? Ended up living over there. No real plan. No conversation with me about what that would mean for the kids. Just... moved in. Slept there. Ate there. Had all of his clothes there. Was around all the time.

And somehow, he was fine putting that burden on the kids. Fine letting them carry adult secrets. Fine teaching them that silence equals love, and discomfort equals betrayal.

That’s not just poor boundaries. That’s enmeshment.

The lines between parent and child, truth and secrecy, safety and sabotage become blurred beyond recognition. He made the kids complicit in his choices.

So while I was being accused of controlling behavior, he was quietly pulling strings behind the scenes by asking them to cover for him, protect him, and never question why they felt responsible for his comfort.

That’s not being an honest adult. That’s hiding behind your kids.

And no matter how subtle it looked on the surface, it was never harmless.

This is my personal account and reflection.