"The Broken Son: Bound by Strings

My mother was gone, and I couldn't be happier. All the strings she had connected to me were cut, and for the first time, I felt truly free. But little did I know, there was still one string attached—an invisible, unnoticeable one.

I had come down sick, struggling to breathe and feeling like I was having a heart attack. I'd been to the ER, and my husband was worried about me, but when her birthday rolled around, I found myself once again tangled in her web.

She was with my sister, who had made her dinner. We exchanged lighthearted jokes over text, and then came the moment that made me aware of the last string. My mother asked me to take garbage bags and laundry detergent to a lady who had just moved to Troy. I was too sick to drive that far, and she didn't care. I had just been to the ER, and yet she still insisted.

Then she changed the request, asking me to take the items to my aunt. I had made it clear to her countless times that I didn't want to deal with family from either side—they had made my life a living hell.

Next, she sent me a picture of something my sister had gotten for her—a turtle and a cookie cream cake. I assumed my sister had made it, so I joked about how perfect it looked. My husband laughed and pointed out that it was way too perfect to be homemade. I mentioned this to my mother, thinking we'd share a laugh, but she corrected me. It wasn't my sister's creation; she had bought it and made everything else.

Then came the message that really set me off: "Yeah, they got money to buy desserts and not steal trash bags."

I was too sick to deal with it, but I couldn't let it slide. I called my husband to the living room and handed him the phone, telling him to deal with it. He took the phone and started typing, trying to find the right words. It took a while for my mother to respond, claiming that the message wasn't from her and offering no explanation.

What made me furious was the accusation. My husband is allergic to fragrances, and the garbage bags she had were scented. There was no way I could use them, so why would I steal them? They left them there, and it wasn't my fault. I wasn't going to run her errands just because she left them behind.

After a while, my husband had crafted a message. He explained how ridiculous her words were and how frustrated he was with the way they had left the trailer for me to clean. He even wished her a happy birthday in the message.

Then, the next message came through, this time from my brother, using my mother's phone. He blasted my husband for telling the truth, twisting my words about moving the trailer to fit their narrative. It was the same old game: rewriting reality to suit their needs.

And then came the familiar manipulation. Before they left, my mother had lectured me about saying anything negative about a girl my brother had living in the trailer. She'd told me how I needed to be nice and how saying anything to my brother would hurt him. But now, the shoe was on the other foot. He was cussing my husband and telling me to leave him, to get away from him.

That was the last straw. I was sick, exhausted, but my anger gave me a burst of energy I hadn't expected. My husband turned off my phone and returned to preparing dinner. I was done. For days, I wanted to get back on the phone and tell them all to leave me alone, but my husband reminded me that to deal with a narcissist, I needed to say no and set clear boundaries. Right now, that meant leaving her alone and ignoring her. I went through the usual levels of guilt, the ones I had become so accustomed to. In my mind, I felt like I had to fix this—I needed to fix this. It was the mentality I had always carried, the instinct to be the fixer in my relationship with my mother, even when I had done nothing wrong. But this time was different. This time, her control had to break.

I made myself a promise: the only way she would ever hear from me again is if she admitted she was wrong. I don't know if this is the best way to handle things with a narcissistic mother, but for now, it was my only option. I knew that once I stood my ground, that last string would be cut. I wouldn't back down. I wouldn't fear her. I would not let her control me anymore.

I had told her that if she ever came between me and my husband, she could forget about me. And this time, she had tried. Never again. To this day, she still tries to contact me through family members and my brother. One day, she may learn—but I'm not holding my breath or putting my life on hold just because she can't grow up and learn from her mistakes.

I love my mother, but her strings of control are cut from me, and I won't let them reattach.