This isn’t about extreme cases where a dad abuses his daughter and the mom pretends not to notice. It’s about the more subtle—and common—situations many of us know all too well.
Your Mom
“Your mom’s a neurotic drama queen, that’s why I’m such a mess!”
As a little girl, I didn’t really get this, but my dad often told me he was in a bad mood because of my anxious mom and that nothing ever got done because of her. I never thought about it that way, but my therapist pointed out how wrong it was for my dad to unload his unhappy marriage on a child and blame it all on my mom.
The Vicious Cycle
As a little boy, I saw my dad drinking and my mom yelling at him. Dad was annoying and awful, but so was mom for putting up with it. Plus, mom was the breadwinner—we could have left anytime. I promised myself I’d never drink, and I haven’t, but somehow I ended up with a wife who always yells at me. This is my family legacy.
Uncle Berci
When I was little, I liked my uncle. He was cheerful and always greeted us kids warmly—unlike my grandpa, who barely noticed us—and he’d chat with us for a long time. But as I grew up, my sister and mom warned me before every family visit: “Watch out for Uncle Berci.” Mom whispered that I should just say hello and slip away, while my sister rolled her eyes and said, “Don’t get too friendly with that old creep.”
I didn’t understand then why they said that or what “creep” meant. But it started to click when Uncle Berci’s comments (“Wow, you’re really blossoming, you’re shaping up like a real lady.”) and long hugs began to feel uncomfortable. I remember warning my younger cousins to be careful around him, and back then, that felt totally normal. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I was outraged—why did my mom have to warn me instead of someone putting Uncle Berci in his place? Like my dad, for example. The whole family enabled this, and that old pervert showed up at every gathering.
In Dependence
My mom used me as an emotional trash can even when I was just a little boy. There were always one or two nights a week when she cried “because of my dad.” She was upset about him, even though I barely saw him as a kid. When they fought (often), my dad would leave and stay at my grandma’s. Then mom would come into my room crying, and instead of helping me with homework, I had to listen to her misery.
As an adult man, I only choose women who constantly complain to me, but I’m never their top priority: I play the same role I did in my mom’s life.
The Role
“You’re late again, you must have been with that slut! I’m leaving you and taking the kids—I’m never letting you see us again!”
This is how my mom argued with my dad, who really did come home late, saying he only stayed away because he didn’t want to face my raging mom. My brother and I always feared we’d have to move out someday. Mom even started packing our things in a dramatic way a few times—while my brother cried and I stood there stunned—but we never left. My dad kept staying out late until he died, and my mom kept yelling at him until she died.
As an adult, I realized my mom played this martyr role her whole life, always needing to suffer dramatically for something. If my dad hadn’t been like that, she would have found another reason to scream and shout—she was that kind of person. I was a teenager when I learned not every family argues and yells every day—I used to think that was just how families were.
