Not everyone is lucky enough to have supportive parents.
Emotionally unreachable
My parents were always working, and my childhood memories mostly involve my grandmother. I can’t recall a single time when I cried and my mom or dad comforted me, or when I shared a joy and they celebrated with me. What I remember about my dad is him throwing my B-average report card away with dissatisfaction—almost disgust. My mom would argue about how my hair looked or why I wrinkled my nice clothes. To them, only my appearance and grades mattered. Once it was clear I wouldn’t be a beauty queen or a lawyer, they gave up on me and quietly faded out of my life.
Just quietly noting...
A young colleague of mine lost both parents early—her dad died in an accident when she was little, and her mom passed from cancer when she was 18. She lived with her maternal grandparents and stays close with her paternal grandparents too. She never lacked anything: they gifted her a home and a car, both families are well-off. Her grandparents still support her in every way, and as their only grandchild, she’s their pride and joy.
Being an orphan is tough, but she’s made it part of her identity. “I’m an orphan,” she told me when we met, and she shares this with every new coworker, mentioning it at least monthly. She wears her orphan status like a badge, loving to play the vulnerable victim. It works for her—she gets discounts, is first in line for promotions, and often gets the easiest tasks because people feel sorry for her. Meanwhile, here I am—my alcoholic dad disappeared when I was seven, and my drug-dependent mom kicked me out at 17 to move in her latest boyfriend. I’m a deeper orphan than she ever was, yet by law, I’m supposed to care for these two people in their old age, who did nothing for me beyond giving me life.
Gone
I was 16 when I told my dad that if he hit me again, I’d fight back. He swung, we fought, and I knocked him out. My mom cried and told me to get out of the house. That was the last time I saw them. Years later, I heard my dad died in a factory accident, but I felt nothing. Twenty years passed before I got a Facebook message from a distant aunt saying my mom had died and asking how much I’d contribute to the funeral. I replied with “nothing,” because to me, my mom has been gone for twenty years.
A loving environment
My mom was the textbook narcissistic parent: only her needs mattered, she never paid attention to me. She manipulated, terrorized, lied daily, and showed zero empathy. I can count on one hand how many times I saw my dad, who last called me to borrow money. I’ve worked since I was 14 and moved out at 16. I barely have contact with either of them. For me, "mom" and "dad" don’t exist.
Fading away
My parents didn’t abandon me or die—they just slowly disappeared from my life. I never went cold, had enough to eat, and wasn’t beaten, but beyond the bare minimum, they never did anything for me. In my twenties, I decided there was no point in going home for the usual once-a-year Christmas visit. They called once—I didn’t answer—and never reached out again. I don’t think they care enough to keep trying. Honestly, maybe they’re relieved they don’t have to deal with me anymore.
