Dear Mrs. Bluth,
I won’t waste your time with a novella on why I am writing to you and get right to the core issue. I hate my adult children, all seven of them! They are determined to kill me with guilt over things they say I did to them when they were young, things I never did according to my recollections. Now that I spat out the bitter pill, I will go into a bit more detail seeing that my opening line probably leaves you somewhat confused.
I got married very young, right out of high school in fact, to a man eight years older than me. Life was different then and even though I became pregnant right away I worked until I gave birth. Life was hard and with only my husband’s salary to live on, there was just enough to pay the landlord, the utilities and put frugal food on the table. So I began babysitting three other babies in my tiny apartment to bring in a little extra income. For the next twelve years I was in a constant state of pregnancy while working from home, babysitting, tailoring and bookkeeping, so that I could be at home for my children, pay for their tuitions and put food on the table and clothes on their backs, as my husband was never a big earner.
Even though we were always stretched thin financially, my children always came home to a hot meal and a mother’s attention. I did homework with them, read to them and told them stories at bedtime, even when I could barely keep my eyes open. I made them the best birthday parties and their friends loved coming to play in our cramped and tiny apartment. As they got older and their needs harder to keep up with, I had difficulty explaining to them why they couldn’t have the expensive toys their friends had or buy tickets to sports events, take trips involving hotel stays or buy them the clothes and footwear that was in style and there was often anger and arguments as to why I was so mean and didn’t allow them to be ‘like the other kids’! When I pointed out that their friends were always in our house, that they enjoyed the snacks and the warmth in our home and didn’t notice the tattered drapes or the lopsided coach, they didn’t care. They all grew up, went to college (on scholarships because it was the only way that made this possible) and all became professionals in their chosen fields. But of course, this was all their doing and I had absolutely nothing to do with it. I let it go because I thought that they’d get over it once they got married (six out of the seven, my youngest son is still single and probably will stay so) and had kids of their own, which they did, baruch Hashem.
Fast forward forty-odd years and the onset of Covid-19, it was decided by everyone that my youngest son should move in with me as he had no familial obligations and since my husband had passed away the year before. Although I objected, as I didn’t have the best relationship with this son, my voice carried no weight. Things took a bad turn from the first night of his arrival. He complained about everything and rearranged everything in the kitchen and bathrooms to suit his needs. I still can’t find many things that had either disappeared or been repositioned and I feel like a stranger in my own home. He is also cruel and derogatory when speaking to me about my bookkeeping and bill-paying method and has assumed full control of these tasks as well. I now get cancellation notices in the mail because of late payment or non-payment of important bills and this angers me. We have bitter arguments and he started saying it was my fault because I forgot to remind him to pay, it was my fault the electric and heating bills were so high because I forget to shut off the lights or lower the temperature when it cold in the house. The worst thing is when I try to solicit help from my other kids, they all seem to defend him and that he’s doing a great job of taking care of me as if I need his physical help to get around. And it has become abundantly clear they are all against me. So I took the bull by the horns three days ago and told him to pack up and leave. But he’s still here, doing whatever he wants as if I didn’t exist.
I am not feeble, or losing my mind and it is clear to me that my children would be far happier if I didn’t exist. It hurts me to no end to understand that all the sacrifices I made to give them a decent childhood were figments of my imagination. If all they remember are the material things they didn’t get, the luxuries I couldn’t afford to give them and think this makes me an abusive parent, then I don’t have a leg to stand on (figuratively) and would rather live out my years alone without any of them.
I’m sorry that this turned out to so long an explanation, but in truth I wrote only a short version of the goings on, so please forgive me. I hope that you can read between the lines and help me find a way to rid myself of these leaches that stand waiting to inherit what little I have. I just want to live out the rest of my life in peace. Thank you for listening.
Dear Friend,
Yours was a heavy letter to read and I had to read it over two or three times to fully grasp your pain and sadness and to find the right words to ease your heart. I, too, am of an age where I walk a little slower, the aches and pains are fairly constant and I tend to look at my own grown children who have graying hair and some are grandparents, and wonder what they see when they look at me. Baruch Hashem my mind is still sharp, the only part of my body that still functions at least 95% as well as it did when I was younger except for remembering names that elude me sometimes, I think I’m still in the game. So I truly understand your situation.
What comes to mind, in defense of what children (adult or otherwise) remember is that they have a tendency to exaggerate the experiences they believe they lived through. As a child, I remember my father, a”h, being so very tall in retrospect to my smallness, when in fact, I grew to be taller than him and couldn’t understand how he got smaller. Children’s hindsight on memories of displeasure or deprivation will also become amplified in retrospect, if they choose to see it through their childish eyes into their adulthood and I feel this is what has happened with your children. How very sad that they chose to hold on to their juvenile disappointments and continue to punish you for being unable (not unwilling) to give them the things other children had. That is a case of stunted growth that require the attention of a capable therapist. But this is something they have to want to do and I cannot offer a quick fix for it here.
What I can do is offer you some options about how to deal with Junior and get him off his high horse, reminding him that you are his mother and not his employee. At the next opportunity, should another argument arise where he tries to diminish you in anyway, give him one last warning before you pack up his things and leave them outside your door. Then, call a locksmith and change the locks. But this is a work of last resorts. Try to reason with him in a quiet moment and hope that he understands that he has overstepped his privilege. I’m hoping that is all it will take, and show him this column so he can see himself through your eyes and mine. Maybe that will be enough to wake him up. If not, go to phase two and start bagging his stuff, but get someone to stay with you when he realizes he’s been evicted. Please keep your cell phone close should you feel threatened or uncomfortable and don’t hesitate to call for help. I hope this will not be necessary, however, it is wise to be prepared. Please let me know how this works out, as I’m sure everyone is wishing for a good outcome.
