“Baby, I didn’t leave you, you were taken from me. Your father lied to you,” my mother corrected me. She gasped helplessly. It took my mother over 20 years to share her burdens. I believed her.
During my senior year, I boarded a plane to Southeast Asia and spent four months living with a stranger. I haven’t seen my mother since I was ten years old. Everything before that moment was surreal. My father had magically found my mother’s little black book. The next day we talked on the phone.
“This is your mother,” said the voice. Suddenly she was there, hugging me warmly upon arrival.
My earliest memories are a blurry collection of enthusiastic dinner parties, dusty construction sites, and foreign nannies. My dad made his first million homes.
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When the financial crisis hit, mortgages ballooned and our lives collapsed. The relationship between my parents steadily deteriorated, ending abruptly in a messy divorce. My mother complied. It was old-fashioned. My father’s 24-year-old mistress was pregnant.
In the middle of the semester, my father pulled me and my sister out of elementary school. The nanny carefully dressed us for the weekend. We were going on an adventure. When we grew up, we – aged 7 and 10 – had to travel alone from London Heathrow Airport to Nice on the French Riviera. My father was violating the divorce settlement; My mother shares custody.
“Where is my mom?” I asked uncertainly. We didn’t say goodbye.
He said softly: “She abandoned you, forget her, you have a new life and a new mother now.” I believed him. I had no reason not to.
We were met at the airport by a short, dark woman, the younger sister of my father’s wife. It seemed strange and unfamiliar: the small vacation apartment, the cigarette smoke, our vodka-drinking family, and her daughter.
Then suddenly my father was there, along with my stepmother and half-siblings. He was building our new home: a 7-bedroom Mediterranean villa with waterfalls, a pool, and a sea view. She later discovered that the escape was carefully planned. My father disappeared after embezzling $1 million in company funds.
My father was attentive and charming when he wanted something. He showered my naive stepmother with gifts: a Louis Vuitton handbag, diamonds, and a Volkswagen Golf Cabriolet. Then suddenly his business trips increased in frequency. My father was away for days at a time.
It wasn’t long before he bought a Mercedes SLK and moved into an apartment, where he only stayed on weekends. “New mom” became my primary profession.
My stepmother was dissatisfied with her new life. But she resented me more than anything else. I was the spitting image of my mother – the beloved son from my father’s previous marriage. I stiffened. She became an outlet for her anger, enduring physical violence and emotional abuse.
She deserved it. “I sacrificed the best years of my life to raise you,” she would say defiantly. My father knew that. He was isolated and isolated.
I was a fairly average student in seventh grade. I was a dreamer, a hard worker, and kept to myself. One evening, I decided to put an end to my stepmother’s abuse. I jumped out of the bedroom window and landed smoothly in the hallway. What now?
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It was spring. All I was wearing were jeans, ankle boots, and a thin knit sweater. In my rush, I didn’t think things through. Hours later, a police officer found me in the park, confused and shaking. After spending a night confined to the family sofa, he is banished to a private boarding school.
Communication with my brothers quickly dried up. My father told me I would be a bad influence.
“It’s very annoying for them to see you,” he would say gently.
I miss my little sister. Just like my mother, I have been deleted from her life.
…
The summer after I met my mother, I was determined to hide my past. She applied for a scholarship, found an apartment on Craigslist, and got a part-time job at Pizza Hut.
Turning down Dad’s money—and living within my means—was my first step toward taking control of my life. With my new financial independence, my father lost his major influence.
For a while, we settled in no man’s land. It was embarrassing. My father called me every day to complain about my stepmother. He will find excuses why he can’t be a part of my life. When he feels anxious or needy, the phone rings constantly. The conversations were always intense and self-indulgent. I will listen, burdened with responsibility.
We would see each other sometimes. Our meetings were always short. His secretary will arrange a taxi ride for us. Or I’ll meet him at the conference venue for breakfast. Sometimes he expressed remorse for his father’s absence. Most of the time it didn’t.
Why did you go with her? I loved it. I was desperate to get his approval.
In my second year of college, I decided the situation had to change. I took time off from my summer job, booked a plane ticket, and arranged for us to spend the day together. I waited in his office. Hours passed. Annoyed, I told the receptionist I’d be at the local coffee shop.
He was angry. It was raining, and I didn’t see or hear my father approaching. I only remember being grabbed from my chair and dragged by my neck to the sidewalk. Without losing his grip, he pulled me across the square and past the bank. He paused for a moment before pushing me to the ground.
I fell and hit my head on the wet tiles. I lay helpless, my hands shielding my face – the menacing figure of my father staring over me.
“She is my daughter. I can do whatever I want,” he explained to the gathered crowd.
I still find excuses for him. When I graduated as valedictorian, my father did not attend the graduation ceremony. Our relationship slowly declined.
For a while, I thought I could handle it. I thought that if I changed my expectations, we could build a constructive relationship. I felt in control. The “new me” was able to set boundaries. I won’t talk to him unless I have the mental space. I was in therapy. I wanted to make things work.
I got married on a sunny — but cold — day in May. We brought together an intimate mix of relatives and close friends. My mother couldn’t do it. The air was fresh, and the mood was joyful. Dad tapped the microphone and cleared his throat. He came without my stepmother and was visibly distressed.
He said in astonishment: “I wrote a letter, but I can’t remember it now.” “I’m sorry for everything you went through. I know it wasn’t easy.” He seemed sincere. He concluded by saying: “I am proud of you.” Tears rolled down my cheeks.
My father sat lost. Only a few guests understood the significance of what had happened.
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The father’s reaction was emotional. “Can you handle a baby? How’s work going?” He asked, changing the subject. I felt sick.
As my belly grew, the veil of my childhood was lifted. At 20 weeks pregnant and hormonal, I lay in bed – sobbing blob. The dog was watching me faithfully. He placed his delicate white body next to mine, listened to my belly, and dried my tears with his little pink tongue. I realized: When my father remarried, he started over. I was a victim of his past. He moved on with his life.
“My love, I did not leave you, you were taken from me. Your father lied to you,” my mother’s words rang in my ears. My mother and I talked every week. I caressed my pregnant belly. Everything makes sense. I knew deep down that my father’s behavior was dysfunctional. I had so many unanswered questions. I wanted to understand why. Why does the father treat his family so badly?
I threw myself into the search. There were others like me: ACONs – adult children of narcissists. I was astonished by my discovery.
My father displayed all the symptoms of narcissistic personality disorder: “a great sense of self-importance, a preoccupation with unlimited power and success, a need for excessive admiration, a sense of entitlement, a lack of empathy…” and the list goes on.
