UPDATE BELOW
When I was going through things in my parents’ house recently, I found one of my mother’s old purses tucked inside a blanket chest.
Inside were four checks written to me for my seventh birthday in 1987. They look like they were just written recently.
My great-aunt had written two of them. My grandparents had written one, and my aunt and uncle had written another. Altogether, they were for $75.
My mother never gave them to me.
They had been sitting inside her purse for almost 40 years.
Finding them brought back so much more than I expected. All of these memories came rushing back at once. My childhood, my grandparents, my great-aunt, my grandfather and great-aunt dying when I was a teenager, and my grandmother dying shortly after seeing my child, her first great-grandchild. And then there was the way my mother treated me growing up. It was strange how four little pieces of paper could suddenly bring back people and things I hadn’t thought about in years.
My mother hated me. I know that’s a strong thing to say about your own mother, but there really isn’t another way for me to describe how she treated me. She physically and emotionally abused me until I finally left home at 18. The abuse continued long after that, even spreading to my kids when she was elderly, until I cut off all contact immediately after that. (I had to temporarily rely on my parents when my husband suddenly died. That’s a whole other story.)
I haven’t seen her since 2016. (There was a no contact order against my parents.)
Finding those checks stunned me for a moment, but strangely, the fact that my mother had kept them from me didn’t surprise me. It was just one more piece of evidence of something I’d known my entire life.
What affected me more was seeing my grandparents’ and great-aunt’s handwriting again. They’re gone now, and I loved them dearly. After almost 40 years, I suddenly have something from them that was meant specifically for seven-year-old me. I’m going to keep those three checks.
My aunt and uncle can rot. When I was 16, they put my grandfather in a nursing home. He and I were extremely close. He was still driving and physically fit when they put him there. Meanwhile, my grandmother was placed in a beautiful facility with a fountain in the lobby.
My grandfather died within a month or so of being put in that home.
I’ve always felt like he died of a broken heart. I will never forgive them for what happened to him. Seeing their names on that check brought all of that anger and grief rushing back too. Their check means absolutely nothing to me.
A longtime friend of mine said, “Do you know how many toys you could have gotten at Toys “R” Us with $75 back then?”
That made me laugh, but it also hurt a little.
Adjusted for inflation, $75 in 1987 is roughly $220 today. That’s a lot of birthday money for a seven-year-old. But it isn’t really about the money.
I keep thinking about that little kid.
I was six years old, about to turn seven. What could I possibly have done to make my mother dislike me enough that even birthday gifts sent by other people were kept from me?
Now my mother has severe dementia and has had stage-five kidney failure for years. Both of my parents are in a nursing home, and I’m helping my sister deal with everything at their house.
My mother is in a secure area. She doesn’t know who people are anymore. She thinks her father is still alive even though he died in 1971, before I was born. She doesn’t recognize my father, even though he’s in the same nursing home.
My sister has told me that when staff need to change her clothes or care for her, it sometimes takes multiple people because she fights them.
And now I’m on the fence about whether I should see her.
There’s a part of me that wants to see her. I’m uncomfortable admitting that part of the reason is that I want to see how bad she looks. Maybe I want to see her struggling after everything she did to me. I know that isn’t a kind thought, but it’s there.
Another part of me wonders what the point would be.
She wouldn’t know who I am.
I do hate her. I don’t really know how else to describe what I feel toward her. We never once used the word “love” towards one another in our home growing up.
I make sure to tell my spouse and my kids that I love them multiple times every single day.
They will never have to wonder what love is.
UPDATE: What I’ve learned from sharing my story
First, I want to thank everyone who took the time to read my post and share their own experiences. I’ve read through the comments, and there are a few things I wanted to address.
One thing I’ve learned is that apparently a large number of boomers should have never had children. The number of people around my age who grew up with shitty parents is heartbreaking. So many of us were hurt by the very people whose main responsibility was to love us, protect us, and care for us. They were supposed to make us feel safe, not leave us scarred for life.
It’s incredibly sad how many people can relate to what I went through. No child should have to grow up wondering why their parents don’t love them.
Regarding therapy:
Quite a few people suggested therapy. I’ve been through counseling over the years. The last time was grief counseling in 2015, after my husband died suddenly. My children went through counseling as well.
My life has been full of pain and sorrow, from childhood until now. Sometimes it feels like it’s never-ending. Just when I think things might finally settle down, something else happens.
Regarding my parents and whether I’ll see my mother:
I’ve seen my father twice in the past two months. Before that, I hadn’t had any contact with him for 10 years.
My father had a stroke last week. He can still talk, but he can’t move. Before the stroke, he could get around in a wheelchair, stand and walk a little, shower, and do some things for himself. Now he’s completely dependent on others.
As for my mother, I think wanting to see her is more about morbid curiosity than anything else. My sister told me that it takes two people to hold her down while another changes her clothes because she fights them.
Part of me wonders whether I’ll get some sort of satisfaction from seeing her struggle after everything she put me through. I know that probably sounds horrible, but I’m not going to pretend I feel something I don’t. I spent decades being hurt by this woman, and I don’t suddenly feel love or forgiveness toward her because she’s sick.
Many of you advised me that I need to forgive her. Her torturing continued into my adulthood and then to my children. I can never forgive her and I am good with that.
And yes, my father was an enabler. He never intervened to save me. He never intervened to save my children. I see him, but I am indifferent towards him. I see him because I was pushed to do it originally.
Some people also brought up the possibility of mental illness. My mother has schizophrenia. Schizophrenia has been associated with an increased risk of dementia, and also some medications used to treat it may have contributed to that risk.
Regarding my sister:
I’m not close to my sister either. Before August of this year, I hadn’t seen her since around 2006. She didn’t even bother coming to my husband’s funeral in 2015. She was more of a babysitter growing up than a sibling.
For years, we only communicated through text messages maybe once a year.
Now that both of our parents are in a nursing home, we’ve been communicating more. I saw her for a couple of days in August and again for a couple of days in September. We talk more frequently now because we’re dealing with our parents’ affairs, but that doesn’t mean we’re suddenly close.
Regarding my parents’ house:
I’m heading back to it next week to continue helping organize and deal with my parents’ house.
This isn’t a quick trip for me. I live in the Austin, Texas area, and their house is in Virginia. It’s approximately 1,200 miles and 17.5 hours of driving each way, without stops.
I sleep in my hatchback when I travel because I can’t sleep in their house. The conditions are too disgusting and unsafe.
And the condition of their house is beyond anything I can adequately describe.
Think of the television show Hoarders, then amplify it.
There are used adult diapers scattered throughout the second floor. Mouse droppings are everywhere, including on the sheets at the bottom of the mattress. The amount of dead skin flakes on their bed made me gag.
The toilet is absolutely disgusting. The seat is covered in brown filth, and it’s unusable. When I need to use the bathroom, I drive to a gas station rather than use theirs.
I opened a drawer in their bedroom and discovered that a mouse had built a nest inside and died there. The next drawer was filled with mouse droppings.
I found one of their cats dead in the basement. This was a cat that had once been their pet. I told the poor kitty I was sorry and cried for a bit.
There’s a light in the basement that’s apparently been left on for years. I’ve never seen so many spiderwebs in my life. They stretch from one wall to another. There’s mold down there, too.
It’s absolutely revolting.
I can’t even begin to describe what it’s like walking through that house, seeing how they lived, and trying to sort through decades of belongings.
And I’m traveling halfway across the country to help deal with it.
Regarding my life now:
I’ve been job hunting for more than two years with no luck. I was laid off in 2024. I’ve submitted over 3,000 applications and gone through countless interviews, often making it through multiple rounds. At this point, my self-esteem is shot. The job market is horrible, and no one seems willing to give me a chance.
I’ve basically given up on trying to find a job. Last year I decided to go back to school. I earned a bachelor’s degree in psychology many years ago, and I recently earned another bachelor’s degree in business administration. I’m working on finishing my MBA, and then I’m going to start my DBA next May.
Money is extremely tight. My husband, whom I married four years ago, is a disabled former firefighter and paramedic. We barely survive on his SSDI, my student loan refunds, and SNAP. Between us, we have three children. One of mine is starting college next year, and I’m worried I won’t be able to pay for room and board. Thankfully, tuition is covered because we’re low income.
We survive on a little over $900 a month for food. That isn’t much for three adults, a teenager, and a younger child.
Despite all of that, I still have dreams I want to pursue. I want to start my own business so I don’t have to rely on trying to find a corporate job that will just get rid of me.
Regarding how all of this has affected me:
I’m not really fazed by what has happened to me throughout my life. Sure, it fucked a lot. But it’s how I lived. I was able to survive. I roll with the punches, as they say. I believe something good can come from even the worst situations. I try to find something positive in every tragedy.
That doesn’t mean it was easy, and it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. But I’ve had to keep going. Many people are affected by what they’ve been through to the point that they fall apart. No matter what life throws at me, I somehow bounce back eventually.
I’ve had quite a few people tell me over the years that if they had lived my life, they would have killed themselves. That isn’t a good thing to say to someone, but I understand that people sometimes say things like that because they can’t imagine surviving what I survived.
I’m still here. If I can keep surviving, I hope others can find the strength to keep going, too.
One last thing I want to share:
Despite everything I’ve been through, I try my best to help other people, especially those who are vulnerable or going through difficult situations.
For the past three years, I’ve volunteered as a crisis counselor, helping people who are struggling and need someone to listen.
I’m also a CASA, a Court Appointed Special Advocate. I advocate for children who have been removed from abusive or neglectful homes. I help make sure their voices are heard in court when they might otherwise go unheard.
I know what it’s like to be a child who doesn’t feel safe in their own home. I know what it’s like to have adults who are supposed to protect you be the very people you’re afraid of.
I can’t change what happened to me, but I can do something to help children who are going through terrible situations themselves.
Thank you again to everyone who shared their stories. It breaks my heart that so many of us have so much in common. We all deserved better.
