My narcissistic mom slept with my exes to prove they weren’t loyal. I’m Amber and I’m 28 years old. I found out about this two weeks ago when my youngest ex Jake showed up at my apartment at 3 in the morning crying. I opened the door in my pajamas confused. Jake and I had broken up 6 months earlier.

It wasn’t a bad breakup. We just wanted different things. He wanted to travel the world. I wanted to build a career. We stayed friends on social media but hadn’t talked in months. Amber, I need to tell you something. He said, his voice shaking. I let him in. He sat on my couch and put his head in his hands. What happened? I asked. Your mom? He said. I slept with your mom. I laughed. I actually laughed because it was so ridiculous that it couldn’t be true.

That’s not funny, Jake. I’m not joking, he said. He looked up at me with red eyes. It happened 3 months ago. She contacted me on Instagram. Said she wanted to talk about you. Said you were depressed after a breakup and she was worried. My stomach dropped. She invited me to lunch. Jake continued.

We met at that Italian place downtown. She was nice. Asked me questions about my life, about my family. Then she ordered wine, a lot of wine. She kept refilling my glass. I should have known something was wrong, but I thought she was just being friendly. I sat down across from him. My hands were shaking.

After lunch, she said her car wouldn’t start. Asked if I could drive her home. I said yes. When we got to her place, she invited me in for coffee. I went in. I don’t know why I went in. I was tipsy. not thinking straight. “Stop,” I said. “I don’t want to hear this. You need to hear this,” Jake said.

“Because she did this on purpose. She planned it.” When we got inside, she started touching me. I told her to stop. I said it was wrong. But she kept saying things like, “Amber doesn’t need to know and you’re so attractive. I can see why my daughter liked you. I was drunk and confused and I made a terrible mistake.” I felt sick.

Actually sick. I ran to the bathroom and threw up. When I came back, Jake was still sitting there. “Why are you telling me this now?” I asked. “Why not 3 months ago?” “Because tonight, she sent me a message,” he said. He pulled out his phone and showed me.

She said if I didn’t sleep with her again, she would tell you that I forced myself on her, that I took advantage of her. The message was there in black and white. My mother’s Instagram account. Her threat. She’s been texting me for weeks, Jake said, saying she wants to see me again. I kept ignoring her. Tonight, she sent that message. I panicked. I came here.

I’m sorry, Amber. I’m so sorry. I took his phone and stared at the messages. There were dozens of them. My mother pursuing him. Him trying to politely decline. Then her threat. Leave. I said quietly. Amber, leave now. He left. I locked the door behind him and sat on the floor.

My brain couldn’t process what I had just learned. My mother. My own mother. I didn’t sleep that night. I sat on my couch and tried to make sense of it. Tried to find an explanation that didn’t make my mother a monster, but I couldn’t. I kept replaying every relationship I ever had.

Every breakup, every guy who suddenly lost interest or acted weird around me. I started wondering if she had been involved in all of them. The thought made me nauseous all over again. I thought about Marcus, my high school boyfriend. We dated for 2 years. He broke up with me out of nowhere during senior year. Said he met someone else. I was devastated for months. I thought about Tom, my college boyfriend. We were together for 3 years. He suddenly became distant and cold.

Started accusing me of things I didn’t do. We broke up right before graduation. I thought about Brian, the guy I dated for a year after college. He ghosted me. Just stopped responding to my calls and texts one day. I never understood why. Had my mother been involved in all of them? When morning came, I called my older sister, Michelle. Michelle lived in Boston. We weren’t super close, but we talked every few weeks. Michelle, I said when she picked up.

I need to ask you something weird. Okay. Did mom ever do anything inappropriate with any of your boyfriends? Silence. Long, horrible silence. Michelle, how did you find out? She asked quietly. My heart stopped. Which one? I asked. Which one? What? Which boyfriend? Another silence. All of them? Michelle said. Every single guy I dated between ages 18 and 25. She slept with all of them. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was going crazy.

Michelle continued. Every guy I brought home would suddenly break up with me a few weeks later. I didn’t understand why. Then I found texts between mom and David. David was my boyfriend in college. The texts were explicit, sexual. I confronted him and he admitted everything. Said mom had seduced him. Said he was sorry.

Why didn’t you tell me? I asked. Because I thought it was just me, Michelle said. I thought maybe I was picking bad guys. Mom told me that I had terrible taste in men. That she was just proving they weren’t good enough for me. She made me feel like it was my fault. She said the same thing to Jake. I whispered.

She told him I didn’t need to know. Amber listened to me. Michelle said, “You need to cut her off completely. I did that 5 years ago. That’s why we moved to Boston. That’s why you almost never see us at family gatherings. Mom is not a normal person. She’s sick. Did she really do this to all your boyfriends? I asked every single one. Yes, I counted once. Seven guys. Seven different men I cared about.

She slept with every one of them and then acted like she was doing me a favor. I felt tears running down my face. I don’t understand, I said. Why would she do this? What kind of person does this? A narcissist, Michelle said. A control freak. Someone who sees us as extensions of herself rather than as real people. I’ve been in therapy for 3 years trying to process it all.

Does therapy help? Sometimes. Other days I still wake up wondering if something is wrong with me. If I did something to make her hate me. You didn’t, I said. Neither of us did. After we hung up, I sat in my apartment for hours. I couldn’t move. couldn’t think. My phone kept buzzing with work emails, but I ignored them. Around noon, I called in sick. Told my boss I had food poisoning. Then I opened a bottle of wine, even though it was the middle of the day.

I drank half the bottle, and then I started going through my old things. Boxes I kept in my closet, photo albums, journals from high school and college. I found my journal from senior year. The entries after Marcus broke up with me were painful to read. I had blamed myself.

Written pages and pages about what I did wrong, how I wasn’t pretty enough or interesting enough. My mother had written comments in some of the margins. I never noticed them before. Little notes like, “You’re better off without him.” And he didn’t deserve you anyway. At the time, I thought she was being supportive. Now I saw them differently. She knew. She knew why Marcus really left. She had caused it. And she sat there and watched me cry and blamed myself.

I threw the journal across the room. Then I called my best friend, Jessica. Jessica and I had been friends since elementary school. She knew everything about my life. Jess, I need to tell you something insane. I said, what’s wrong? You sound terrible.

I told her everything about Jake, about Michelle, about my suspicions regarding my other exes. Jessica was quiet for a long time. Amber, she finally said, I need to tell you something. Something I should have told you years ago. What? Your mom h!t on Brian. Brian, my ex from 3 years ago. The one who ghosted me.

What do you mean she h!t on him at your birthday party? Remember your 25th birthday? We had that party at your apartment. I went to the kitchen to get more ice and I saw your mom cornering Brian. She had her hand on his chest. She was standing really close to him. When she saw me, she backed off and acted normal. Why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t know what I saw.

I thought maybe I misread the situation. Brian seemed uncomfortable, but he didn’t say anything. Then a week later, he ghosted you. I wondered if the two things were connected, but I had no proof. I’m sorry, Amber. I should have said something. It’s not your fault. I said, none of this is your fault, but inside I was screaming. Brian had ghosted me right after my birthday. Right after my mother had cornered him.

She had probably threatened him or seduced him or both. There’s more. Jessica said, “Your mom called me a few months after Brian disappeared. She asked me if you were seeing anyone new. I said no. She said that was good. That you needed to focus on yourself, that men were just distractions. It felt weird at the time, but I didn’t think much of it.

She was monitoring me.” I said, making sure I stayed single. It looks that way. After we hung up, I immediately drove to my mother’s house. I didn’t call first. I just showed up. She answered the door in a silk robe, looking surprised. Amber, what a lovely surprise. Come in, honey. I walked past her into the living room.

The house looked the same as always. Clean, elegant, full of photos of me and Michelle as children. Photos of the perfect family we never were. Did you sleep with Jake? I asked. Her face changed just for a second. A flash of something cold. Then she smiled. Honey, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Don’t lie to me, I said. Jake told me everything. Michelle told me everything. I know what you did. She sat down on her couch and crossed her legs. Calm. Completely calm. Okay, she said. Yes. I slept with Jake and I slept with Michelle’s boyfriends.

And I slept with your high school boyfriend Marcus and your college boyfriend Tom. I felt like the floor disappeared beneath me. Marcus, I whispered. Tom, all of them? She said casually. Every single one. Why? I asked. Why would you do that? Because they weren’t good enough for you? She said simply. Any man who would sleep with his girlfriend’s mother is not loyal. I was protecting you. Protecting me? I shouted. You destroyed my relationships. I saved you from heartbreak, she said.

Better to find out early that they were trash than to waste years on them. What about Brian? I asked. What did you do to Brian? She smiled. Actually smiled. Brian was particularly easy, she said. I told him you had been diagnosed with a serious mental illness. That you were unstable. That you had hurt yourself in the past.

He was terrified. He ran away like the coward he was. I stared at her. You lied about me having a mental illness. I did what I had to do. He wasn’t right for you. You don’t get to decide that. I’m your mother. It’s my job to protect you. Protect me? I was shaking now. You ruined my life.

Do you understand that? I spent years thinking something was wrong with me, thinking I was unlovable because you sabotaged every relationship I ever had. She stood up and suddenly her calm mask cracked. Her face twisted into something ugly. Unlovable? She hissed. I’m the only one who loves you enough to protect you.

Every single one of those boys would have cheated on you eventually. I just sped up the process. You should be thanking me. Thanking you? I backed toward the door. You’re sick. You need help. Get out, she said coldly. Get out of my house gladly, I said. And don’t ever contact me again.

I drove home shaking so hard I almost crashed twice. When I got to my apartment, I blocked my mother on everything. Phone, email, social media, everything. Then I called Michelle back. I confronted her. I said, “What did she say?” She admitted it. All of it. She said she was protecting us. And Michelle, she lied to Brian. Told him I had a mental illness.

That’s why he ghosted me. Michelle, that sounds like her. Amber, there’s something else you should know. What? I did some research after I found out. I talked to some of mom’s old friends. Apparently, she did this to her own sister, too. Back in the 80s, slept with Aunt Caroline’s husband.

That’s why Aunt Caroline doesn’t speak to her anymore. I remembered Aunt Caroline. I hadn’t seen her since I was a kid. I always thought they had some boring adult fight about money or inheritance. It’s a pattern. Michelle said, “Mom is obsessed with proving that the people we love aren’t loyal.

I think it makes her feel powerful, like she’s the only person we can trust. That’s twisted, I said. I know. I’m sorry you had to find out this way. But Amber, you need to know it goes even deeper than the boyfriends. What do you mean? Do you remember your friend from high school, Katie? Katie, my best friend from sophomore to junior year.

We were inseparable. Then suddenly, she stopped talking to me. Started spreading rumors about me. What about Katie? Mom told her you were talking behind her back, saying terrible things about her. Katie believed it. That’s why she turned on you.

How do you know that? I ran into Katie at a coffee shop in Boston last year. She lives there now. We started talking. She told me she felt terrible about what happened, but she thought you hated her. She said your mom showed her text messages where you called her names. Katie said the messages looked real. They were fake. I said like the ones she showed Marcus. Exactly.

Mom has been sabotaging your friendships too, not just your relationships. I felt like I was going to be sick again. Why would she do that? Why would she want me to be alone? Because if you’re alone, you only have her. That’s what narcissists do. They isolate you. Make you dependent on them.

I hung up and sat in silence for a long time. How many friendships had my mother destroyed? How many opportunities had she ruined? I started making a list, writing down every relationship that ended suddenly, every friendship that fell apart for no reason. The list was long, longer than I wanted to admit. Then I started reaching out to people.

old friends, old boyfriends, people I hadn’t talked to in years. I sent them all the same message. I know this is random, but did my mother ever contact you or say anything strange about me? The responses came in slowly, but they came. Tom, my college boyfriend, responded first. Your mom told me you were cheating on me with your study partner. She showed me photos of you and him at the library. She said you confessed to her.

I broke up with you without asking because I was hurt and stupid. I’m sorry, Amber. I should have talked to you first. Marcus, my high school boyfriend, sent a long message. Your mom told me you were sleeping with someone from drama class. She had text messages to prove it. I was 17 and believed her.

I broke up with you and started dating someone else to make you jealous. By the time I realized the text were fake, you hated me. I was too ashamed to tell you the truth. I’m sorry, Katie. My old friend wrote back. Your mom told me you called me fat and ugly behind my back. She showed me messages. They looked real. I was hurt and angry.

I said terrible things about you to other people. I’ve regretted it ever since. I’m so sorry, Amber. I should have asked you about it first. One by one, the responses came in, each one revealing another layer of my mother’s manipulation. She had spent years systematically destroying my support system, making sure I had no one but her. I cried for hours, not just for myself, but for all the people she hurt, all the relationships she poisoned. Jessica came over that night.

She brought wine and pizza and just sat with me while I cried. “What are you going to do?” she asked. “I don’t know.” Part of me wants to confront her again. To make her admit what she did to everyone, but I know she’ll just deny it or twist it around.

“What about your dad? Does he know my dad?” I hadn’t even thought about calling him. My parents had divorced when I was 12. Dad moved to Florida and remarried. We talked occasionally, but weren’t close. My mother always said dad abandoned us. That he chose his new wife over me and Michelle. I believed her for years, but now I wondered if that was another lie. The next morning, I called my father.

Dad, I said, why did you and mom really get divorced? Silence. Amber, that’s ancient history. Please, I need to know. He sighed. Your mother cheated multiple times with my friends, my co-workers, even my brother. She said she was testing their loyalty, testing to see if they were really my friends.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I filed for divorce and moved away. Why didn’t you fight for custody? I asked. I tried. But your mother is very good at manipulating people. She convinced the judge I was unstable, that I abandoned the family. By the time I could afford a better lawyer, you girls were older and the court said you could choose. You both chose to stay with her because she told us you didn’t want us, I said, the realization hitting me. I know.

I got your letters. The ones where you said I was a bad father, that you never wanted to see me again. I never sent you letters, I said. Another silence. She wrote them, Dad said quietly. She forged your handwriting. I should have known. I should have fought harder. I’m sorry, Amber. It’s not your fault, Dad.

She manipulated all of us. What made you call and ask about this now? I told him everything about Jake. About Michelle. About the pattern of sabotage. When I finished, he was quiet for a long time. I’m not surprised, he finally said. Your mother did the same thing to me.

She tried to sabotage my relationship with Susan. Sent her anonymous messages saying I was cheating. Called her at work and hung up. Susan almost left me because of it. What did you do? I got a restraining order. It was the only way to make her stop. Amber, you need to protect yourself. Your mother is not going to change.

She’s not going to suddenly realize what she’s done and apologize. You need to cut her out of your life completely. I already blocked her on everything. That’s good, but you might need to do more. Document everything. Save the messages, the texts, get statements from Jake and the others. You might need evidence if she escalates. Escalates how? Your mother doesn’t handle rejection well. When I left her, she tried to ruin my life. She called my job and said I was stealing from the company.

She told my family I was abusing her. She even called the police and said I threatened her. None of it was true, but I had to deal with it all anyway. Did the police believe her at first? But I had evidence that I wasn’t anywhere near her when she claimed I threatened her. The charges were dropped, but it was a nightmare.

Amber, I don’t want you to go through the same thing. After I hung up, I felt paranoid. What would my mother do now that I had cut her off? Would she try to ruin my life like she tried to ruin Dad’s? I decided to follow dad’s advice. I started documenting everything.

I screenshotted all the messages Jake had shown me. I asked Tom and Marcus to send me any evidence they had. I wrote down dates and times and details of every conversation. I also contacted a lawyer just to see what my options were. The lawyer’s name was Rebecca. She specialized in family law and harassment cases.

This is a complicated situation, Rebecca said after I explained everything. Your mother hasn’t technically broken any laws in most of these cases. Sleeping with your boyfriends is morally wrong, but not illegal. Lying to them about you is manipulative, but also not illegal.

What about the fake text messages? Isn’t that fraud or something? It could be, but proving it would be difficult. You would need the original messages. Evidence that she created them. Most of these incidents happened years ago. The evidence is probably gone, so there’s nothing I can do. I didn’t say that. The threats she made to Jake could be considered blackmail or extortion. If Jake is willing to testify, we might have a case there.

Also, if she tries to contact you after you’ve made it clear you want no contact, that could be harassment. I recommend getting a restraining order if she attempts to reach you again. How do I get a restraining order? You file a petition with the court. You explain the situation and provide evidence. If the judge agrees there’s a threat, they’ll issue a temporary order. Then there’s a hearing where both sides present their case. Would I have to see her? Probably, but you wouldn’t have to speak to her. Your lawyer would speak for you.

The thought of seeing my mother in court made me anxious, but I knew it might be necessary. Let me think about it, I said. Take your time, but document everything in the meantime. If she contacts you, don’t respond. Just save the evidence. I left Rebecca’s office feeling slightly better. At least I had a plan. At least I knew what to do if things got worse. Days passed. Then weeks, I threw myself into work. Tried to keep busy.

Tried not to think about my mother. Then one night, my doorbell rang. It was almost midnight. I looked through the peepphole and saw Marcus, my high school boyfriend. I hadn’t seen him in almost 10 years. Amber, I know it’s late. He called through the door. But I really need to talk to you. I opened the door. Marcus looked different.

Older obviously, but also tired, worn out. I heard about your mom, he said. Jake posted something on social media. He didn’t name names, but I figured it out. I need to tell you something. Come in, I said. He sat down and rubbed his face.

When we broke up, he said, “You thought I cheated on you with that girl from my math class. Remember?” I nodded. “That breakup had destroyed me in high school.” “I didn’t cheat on you.” Marcus said, “Your mom told me you cheated on me.” She showed me fake text messages. Said you were sleeping with some guy from your drama class. I was 17 and stupid. I believed her.

I broke up with you and started dating the math class girl to make you jealous. By the time I realized your mom had lied, you hated me. I was too ashamed to tell you the truth. I stared at him. She made fake text messages. Yeah, they looked real. She showed them to me on her phone. Said she found them on your computer.

I’m sorry, Amber. I should have talked to you first. I was a kid and I made a terrible mistake. Did you sleep with her? I asked. He looked down. Yeah. After we broke up, she called me a few weeks later. Said she wanted to apologize for getting involved. Invited me over. I thought she was being nice. Then she came on to me. I said no at first, but she kept pushing. I was 17 and she was an adult. I didn’t know what to do. Oh my god, I whispered.

I felt disgusting afterward, Marcus said. I never told anyone. But when I saw Jake’s post, I realized I wasn’t alone. I realized she did this to other guys, too. I’m sorry, Amber. I should have told you years ago. After Marcus left, I couldn’t sleep.

I kept thinking about how many lives my mother had ruined, how many relationships she had destroyed, and I kept thinking about Marcus, 17 years old, manipulated by a woman in her 30s. My mother. The next morning, I called my father again. “Dad, did mom ever do anything inappropriate with young guys, like teenagers?” He was quiet for a moment. “Why are you asking?” “Because Marcus just told me she slept with him when he was 17, right after they broke up.” “Jesus Christ,” Dad muttered. “I don’t know, Amber.

I mean, she always paid a lot of attention to your boyfriends. I thought she was just being friendly. But now that you mention it, there were a few times I caught her acting strangely around your friends. She would touch their arms, stand too close, laugh too loud at their jokes. Did you ever say anything?” “No, I told myself I was imagining things.

I didn’t want to believe my wife was capable of that. I’m sorry, Amber. I should have paid more attention.” It’s not your fault. She’s good at hiding what she really is. After we hung up, I called Rebecca, my lawyer. Marcus was a minor when she slept with him, I said.

That’s illegal, right? How old was your mother at the time? 39 and he was 17. Yes, that could potentially be statutory assault depending on the state. The statute of limitations might have run out, but it’s worth looking into. Is Marcus willing to file a report? I don’t know. I can ask. I called Marcus and explained what the lawyer said. He was hesitant. I don’t know if I can go through with that, he said. It was 10 years ago. I just want to move on.

I understand. But Marcus, if she did this to you, she might have done it to other young guys. Don’t you want to stop her? He was quiet for a long time. Let me think about it. He finally said while I waited for Marcus to decide. I kept reaching out to other people from my past.

I found Brian on Facebook and sent him a message. Brian, I know you ghosted me 3 years ago. I recently found out my mother lied to you about me. Can we talk? He responded within an hour. Amber, I’m so sorry. Your mom told me you had severe depression and had tried to hurt yourself.

She said you were obsessed with me and that I needed to cut off all contact for your own safety. She said if I broke up with you normally, you might do something dangerous. I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I thought I was protecting you by disappearing. I read his message three times. Each time I felt angrier.

My mother had convinced Brian that I was suicidal, that I was dangerous to myself, all to make him leave me. Did she ever contact you again after that? I wrote back, “Yeah, she would text me every few weeks asking if I had contacted you.” She said she was monitoring the situation. “It was weird, but I thought she was just being a protective mom.

She was controlling me, making sure I stayed isolated. I’m really sorry, Amber. I should have talked to you. I should have verified what she was saying. It’s not your fault.” She manipulated both of us. I added Brian to the list of people my mother had manipulated. The list was getting longer every day. Then, I had an idea.

I created a private Facebook group. I called it the truth about Linda Mason, my mother’s name. I invited Michelle, Marcus, Jake, Tom, and Brian. Tom was my college boyfriend. I hadn’t spoken to him in years, but I found him on LinkedIn. Tom accepted the invitation immediately. He messaged me privately.

I wondered if you’d ever find out, he wrote. She slept with me, too. After we broke up, she said, “You asked her to do it to test if I still loved you. I was young and stupid, and I said yes. I’m sorry.” Within 24 hours, I had six guys in the group. Six men had slept with who had dated either me or Michelle. We all shared our stories, the manipulation, the lies, the threats. One of Michelle’s exes, a guy named Ryan, said our mother had blackmailed him.

She had secretly recorded them having sex and threatened to show it to his new girlfriend if he didn’t pay her $5,000. Did you pay? I asked in the group chat. Yeah, I was terrified. I paid her and she deleted the video. Or so she said. I felt sick again. My mother wasn’t just a narcissist. She was a predator, a criminal. We should go to the police, Michelle wrote in the group and tell them what Ryan wrote back. That a woman seduced us. They’ll laugh at us.

She blackmailed you. I wrote that’s illegal. I have no proof. I paid her in cash. The video is gone. We went back and forth for hours. More people joined the group. A guy named David who dated Michelle in college. A guy named Chris who dated her right after high school.

even a guy named Steven who dated me briefly after college. I had forgotten about Steven. We only went out for a few months. Steven told his story. My mother had called him and said I was getting back together with my ex. That I was just using Steven as a rebound. He broke up with me without asking me if it was true. The pattern was the same every time. My mother would lie, manipulate, seduce, threaten, whatever it took to destroy the relationship.

Why did she do this? Steven asked in the group, “What did she get out of it?” “Control,” Michelle wrote. She wanted to control our lives, make us dependent on her. “It’s more than that,” I added. I think she genuinely believes she’s protecting us. In her mind, she’s the hero of the story. Finally, someone suggested something different.

Tom wrote, “What if we confront her together?” All of us. Make her confess on camera. It was risky. Maybe stupid, but I was desperate. “I’m in.” I wrote. Everyone agreed. We planned it for the following Saturday. We would all show up at my mother’s house at the same time. We would film everything on our phones. We would make her admit what she had done. Saturday came. I felt like I was going to throw up the entire drive to her house. Michelle flew in from Boston.

We picked her up from the airport and drove together. The guys met us at the end of my mother’s street. There were eight of us total. Me, Michelle, Jake, Marcus, Tom, Ryan, David, and Chris. Steven couldn’t make it, but he sent messages of support. We walked up to the door together. I knocked.

My mother opened the door and her face went white. “Amber, what is this?” “We need to talk,” I said. She tried to close the door, but Marcus put his foot in the way. “No,” he said. “You’re going to listen to us.” We pushed inside, not violently, but firmly. She backed up into her living room. “You can’t just barge into my house. We’re not leaving until you tell the truth,” I said. I held up my phone recording.

“All of us want to hear you explain why you did what you did.” She looked around at all the faces, all the men she had slept with, all the relationships she had destroyed. “For the first time, I saw fear in her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, but her voice shook. “Yes, you do,” Michelle said. “You slept with our boyfriends.

You manipulated them. You blackmailed Ryan. You sabotaged our lives for years. Admit it. Get out of my house or I’m calling the police. Go ahead, Jake said. Call them. We’ll show them the texts, the blackmail, everything. She grabbed her phone, but her hands were shaking too hard to dial.

You’re all lying, she said desperately. You’re conspiring against me. Amber, Michelle, I’m your mother. How could you believe these men over me? Because they’re telling the truth, I said. And I have proof. I pulled out printed copies of the text messages, Jake’s messages, Ryan’s screenshots Michelle had saved, photos Marcus had kept of the fake texts she created. I laid them all on her coffee table. Explain these, I said.

She looked at the papers and something inside her broke. She collapsed onto the couch and started crying. “I was trying to protect you,” she sobbed. “All of you. You don’t understand. Men are liars. They cheat. They leave.” “I was showing you the truth.” “No,” Michelle said. “You were controlling us. You wanted us to depend only on you.” “That’s not true.

Then why did you do it to Aunt Caroline?” I asked. “Why did you sleep with her husband? She wasn’t your daughter. You weren’t protecting her. My mother’s face changed again. The tears stopped. She looked up at us with cold, hard eyes. Caroline stole everything from me,” she said quietly.

“She was the pretty one, the smart one. Everyone loved her. I wanted to prove she wasn’t so perfect, that her perfect husband wasn’t loyal.” “And dad,” I asked. Why did you cheat on him with his friends and his brother? because he wasn’t good enough for me. None of them were. I deserved better.” The room went silent.

I realized then that my mother didn’t think she did anything wrong. She genuinely believed she was justified. “You need help,” Michelle said. “Professional help? I don’t need anything.” My mother said, “You’re all ungrateful.

I sacrificed everything for you girls and this is how you repay me by bringing these strangers into my home to attack me. We’re not attacking you.” I said, “We’re holding you accountable.” She laughed. Actually laughed. A harsh bitter sound. Accountable? You can’t do anything to me. You have no power here. Actually, Ryan said, “I’ve already filed a police report about the blackmail.

I found the bank records of the cash withdrawal. My lawyer says we have a case.” Her face went pale again. You’re lying. No, I’m done being scared of you. We all are. One by one, the guys explained what they were doing. Marcus was filing a report about statutory assault. She had slept with him when he was 17 and she was 39.

Tom was talking to a lawyer about recording someone without consent. Jake was pressing harassment charges. You can’t do this to me. My mother whispered. I’m your mother, Amber. Michelle, tell them to stop. I looked at her. This woman who gave birth to me, who raised me, who destroyed so many lives. No, I said you did this to yourself. We left her sitting on that couch. All eight of us walked out together.

As we stood on her lawn, Michelle turned to me. What now? She asked. Now we heal, I said. We all went to a diner nearby, eight people who had been manipulated by the same woman. We sat in a big booth and ordered coffee and just talked. Marcus told us he had been in therapy for 3 years. He had trust issues, commitment issues.

He blamed himself for what happened. I thought I was weak, he said. I thought I let her manipulate me because something was wrong with me. You were 17, Tom said. She was an adult. It wasn’t your fault. Jake talked about how the experience with my mother made him question every relationship. I keep wondering if women are lying to me, if they have ulterior motives. It’s exhausting. Ryan was the most damaged.

He had paid my mother $5,000 and then spiraled into depression. He lost his job, his apartment. He had been homeless for 6 months before getting back on his feet. I thought about ending everything, he admitted. I felt so ashamed, like I had let her victimize me.

David, one of Michelle’s exes, had gotten married and divorced in the years since dating Michelle. I never told my ex-wife what happened with your mom, but I think it affected our marriage. I couldn’t trust her. I was always waiting for her to betray me. Chris had given up on relationships entirely. I haven’t dated anyone seriously in 8 years. I just do casual things.

I’m too scared to let anyone get close. Hearing their stories made me realize how farreaching my mother’s damage was. She didn’t just ruin relationships, she ruined lives. We should start a support group, Michelle suggested. But for people who have been manipulated by narcissistic parents, that’s actually a good idea, Jake said.

I would have loved something like that years ago. We exchanged numbers, promised to stay in touch, made plans to meet again. When I got home that night, I felt lighter. Not happy, not healed, but lighter, like I had finally confronted the monster and survived. The legal stuff took months. Ryan’s blackmail case moved forward. The prosecutor was very interested.

They subpoenaed my mother’s phone records and found evidence she had contacted multiple men over the years. Marcus’ case was complicated because of the statute of limitations. But the prosecutor was interested in pursuing it anyway. They found two other young men who came forward with similar stories. Apparently, my mother had a pattern of targeting teenagers. Jake’s harassment case resulted in a restraining order within two weeks. My mother was forbidden from contacting him in any way.

I filed for my own restraining order. Rebecca helped me prepare the petition. We included evidence of her manipulation, her lies, her pattern of sabotage. The hearing was scheduled for 3 weeks later. In the meantime, more people started coming forward. A guy named Peter who dated me in high school for a few months.

My mother had told him I was moving away and it wasn’t worth continuing the relationship. He broke up with me and I never knew why. A woman named Jennifer who was friends with Michelle in college. My mother had told Jennifer that Michelle was spreading rumors about her. The friendship ended and they never spoke again.

A neighbor named Frank who was friendly with our family. My mother had accused him of looking at me inappropriately when I was 14. Frank moved away shortly after. I found him on Facebook and asked him what happened. He said my mother threatened to call the police unless he moved. He was terrified, so he left.

The list of victims kept growing. My mother had spent decades manipulating and destroying relationships. She had isolated me and Michelle so thoroughly that we barely had anyone left by the time we figured out what she was doing. Jessica came over one night with a bottle of wine. “How are you holding up?” she asked. “I don’t know.

Some days I’m angry. Some days I’m just sad. I keep thinking about all the time I wasted. All the people I lost because of her. You didn’t waste time. You survived. That’s what matters. Did you ever suspect that my mom was doing these things? Jessica thought about it honestly a little. She was always so involved in your life. Always asking questions about who you were seeing, who you were friends with. I thought she was just being a protective mom.

But looking back, it was excessive. Why didn’t you say anything? Because I didn’t have proof. And because she was good at making it seem normal, like she just cared about you. She did care in her own twisted way. She just couldn’t let me be my own person. That’s not love, Amber. That’s ownership. The restraining order hearing arrived.

I wore a professional outfit and met Rebecca at the courthouse. Michelle came with me for support. My mother was already there with her lawyer, a slick-l lookinging man in an expensive suit. When she saw me, she tried to approach. Her lawyer stopped her. Don’t, he said quietly. It will hurt your case. We went into the courtroom.

The judge was a middle-aged woman with kind eyes. Rebecca presented our case. She showed the text messages, the statements from Jake, Marcus, and the others. The pattern of manipulation spanning decades. My mother’s lawyer argued that I was making things up, that I was angry about a normal mother-daughter conflict and exaggerating everything. Your honor, he said, this is a case of an adult daughter who can’t accept that her relationships failed.

She’s looking for someone to blame, and she’s chosen her mother. The judge looked skeptical. Then Rebecca called me to testify. I sat in the witness stand and told my story. I explained how my mother had sabotaged every relationship. How she had lied to my boyfriends. How she had isolated me from friends and family.

My mother’s lawyer cross-examined me. Isn’t it true that you and your mother have always had a difficult relationship? He asked. No. I thought we were close until 2 months ago. Isn’t it true that you’ve struggled with mental health issues? No. My mother told people I had mental health issues, but I don’t.

How do we know these text messages are real? Couldn’t you have fabricated them? The phone company verified them. They’re in the court records. He tried a few more angles, but Rebecca objected each time. Finally, the judge made her decision. I’ve reviewed the evidence, she said. and I find the petitioner’s claims credible.

There is a clear pattern of harassment and manipulation. I’m granting a temporary restraining order. The respondent is forbidden from contacting the petitioner in any way for one year. We’ll revisit this at that time to determine if the order should be made permanent. My mother stood up. Your honor, this is ridiculous. She’s my daughter. Sit down, Mrs. Mason, the judge said firmly. If you violate this order, you will be arrested.

Do you understand? My mother’s face was red with rage, but she sat down. We left the courthouse quickly. Michelle hugged me tight. You did it, she said. You stood up to her. We did it. I corrected. I couldn’t have done this without you. Rebecca smiled. This is just the beginning. The criminal cases are still moving forward. Your mother is going to face consequences for what she did. Over the next few months, I watched those cases progress. Ryan’s blackmail case went to trial.

My mother’s lawyer tried to get it dismissed, but the evidence was overwhelming. She had sent threatening text messages. Ryan had bank records of the cash withdrawal. Other victims came forward with similar stories. The jury deliberated for less than 3 hours. Guilty. Marcus’ case was harder. The statute of limitations had technically expired, but the prosecutor argued that Marcus didn’t realize he had been a victim until recently.

The judge agreed to let the case proceed. My mother’s lawyer offered a plea deal. she would plead guilty to reduce charges in exchange for avoiding a trial. Marcus agonized over the decision. I want her to face a jury. I want everyone to know what she did, but I don’t know if I can handle testifying.

You don’t have to decide right now, I told him. Take your time. Eventually, Marcus decided to accept the plea deal. I just want this to be over, he said. I want to move on with my life. My mother pleaded guilty to multiple counts of criminal harassment and one count of statutory assault. The judge sentenced her to two years in prison and 5 years of probation. Michelle and I didn’t go to the sentencing. We couldn’t. It was too painful. But Marcus went.

He told us about it later. She didn’t look at me. He said the whole time the judge was talking, she just stared straight ahead. No emotion, no remorse. It was like she wasn’t even there. Did she say anything? At the end, the judge asked if she had anything to say. She said, “I did everything out of love.

I have no regrets. I felt sick hearing that.” Even after everything, my mother still believed she was right. The judge didn’t like that. Marcus continued. She said something like, “Love doesn’t manipulate. Love doesn’t destroy. What you did was not love.” Then she gave the sentence.

“My father called me after he heard about the sentencing. How are you doing?” He asked. I don’t know, Dad. I’m relieved it’s over. But I’m also sad. She’s still my mom. You know, even after everything, I understand. When your mother and I divorced, I grieved for the person I thought she was, the person she pretended to be.

It takes time to accept that person never really existed. Did you ever love her? The real her. I don’t think I ever knew the real her. She was always performing, always manipulating. I love the performance. Do you hate her? No. I pity her. She destroyed her own life. She had two beautiful daughters who loved her.

She had a family and she threw it all away because she couldn’t stop trying to control everyone around her. I don’t think I’ll ever understand why she did it. Neither will I. Some people are just broken. Amber, and sometimes they break everyone around them. After the sentencing, things slowly started to return to normal. I focused on work, started therapy, tried to rebuild my life. I reconnected with Katie, my old friend from high school. We met for coffee and talked for hours.

I’m so sorry I believed your mom, Katie said. I should have known you would never say those things about me. It’s not your fault. She was convincing. She fooled everyone. Can we be friends again? I really missed you. I missed you, too. We started hanging out regularly. Movie nights, dinner, just normal friends stuff. It felt good to have that connection back. I also reconnected with my father. He flew up to visit me several times.

We had long conversations about everything. About my childhood, about the divorce, about his new life. I’d like you to meet Susan, he said during one visit. My wife, she’s wonderful. I think you’d like her. I’d like that. The next month, I flew to Florida. Dad picked me up at the airport.

Susan was waiting at their house with homemade cookies and a warm smile. I’ve heard so much about you, she said, hugging me. I’m so glad we finally get to meet. Susan was kind, genuine. She asked about my life, my job, my interests. She didn’t pry about my mother. She just treated me like a person, not a problem to be solved.

We spent the weekend together. Dad took me to his favorite restaurant. Susan showed me around their neighborhood. We played board games and watched old movies. It felt like family. Real family, not the twisted, manipulative version my mother had created. On my last night there, Dad and I sat on the back porch.

Thank you for coming, he said. I know it wasn’t easy. We have a lot of lost time to make up for. I’m sorry. I believed her, I said. All those years, I should have reached out to you. You were a child. She manipulated you. This isn’t your fault. I’m an adult now. I could have called. I could have asked questions.

You did call. You did ask. You’re here now. That’s what matters. I leaned my head on his shoulder. I love you, Dad. I love you, too, sweetheart. Back home, I started dating again. Slowly, carefully, I went on a few dates that went nowhere. Then, I met someone through a friend. His name was Daniel.

He was kind, patient, funny. On our third date, I told him about my mother. Not everything. Just the basic outline. That’s heavy. He said, “I’m sorry you went through that. Does it scare you? I asked, knowing my family is so messed up. No, you’re not your mother. You’re you, and I think you’re pretty amazing. We took things slow. I was terrified of repeating patterns, terrified of becoming her. But Daniel was patient. He didn’t push. He let me set the pace.

After a few months, I introduced him to Jessica. So, what do you think? I asked Jessica later. I like him. He seems genuine, and he makes you smile. I haven’t seen you smile like that in a long time. I’m scared, Jess.

What if I mess this up? What if I’m more like her than I realize? You’re nothing like her, Amber. The fact that you’re worried about it proves that. Your mom never questioned herself. You’re self-aware. You’re in therapy. You’re doing the work. What if he leaves? What if he realizes I’m too damaged? Then he’s not the right person. But I don’t think that’s going to happen. I think he’s in this for real. Jessica was right.

Daniel stuck around through my bad days, through my anxiety. Through the nightmares about my mother. One night, about 6 months into our relationship, I woke up crying. I had dreamed that I was becoming my mother. That I was manipulating Daniel the way she manipulated everyone. Daniel held me while I cried. It was just a dream. He said, “You’re not her. How do you know? How do you know I won’t turn into her? Because you care.

Because you’re scared of becoming her.” Your mom never cared about how her actions affected people. You do. That makes all the difference. 8 months after my mother went to prison, I got a letter from prison. from her. I almost threw it away without reading it. But something made me open it. Inside was a single page of notebook paper.

Her handwriting. Amber, I know you hate me. You have every right to. I’ve had a lot of time to think in here, to really look at what I did. I was wrong. I was cruel. I was sick. I still don’t fully understand why I did those things.

My therapist here says I have something called narcissistic personality disorder mixed with obsessive control issues. That doesn’t excuse what I did. Nothing excuses it. But I want you to know that I’m sorry. Truly sorry. I know you won’t forgive me. I don’t deserve forgiveness, but I needed you to know that I finally see it. I finally see how much I hurt you.

I destroyed your life and Michelle’s life and so many others. I wish I could take it back. I can’t. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry. You don’t have to write back. I understand. I love you. Even though I showed it in the most horrible way possible. I do love you, Mom. I read the letter three times. Then I put it in a drawer.

I didn’t write back. Not then, but I didn’t throw it away either. Michelle came to visit a few weeks later. I showed her the letter. What do you think? I asked. I think she means it. Michelle said, but that doesn’t mean we have to forgive her. I know. Do you want to forgive her? I thought about it for a long time. Maybe someday, I said.

But not yet. Not now. That’s okay. Michelle said. Healing isn’t linear. You don’t owe her anything. We spent the rest of the weekend together cooking, watching movies, laughing, being sisters. It was nice, simple, normal. The kind of normal I never had growing up. Michelle had news. She was pregnant, her first baby. I’m terrified, she admitted. What if I turn into her? What if I hurt my kid the way she hurt us? You won’t, I said.

Because you’re aware. You’re getting help. You’re nothing like her. How do you know? Because she never questioned herself. Never admitted she was wrong until she was forced to. You’re already different. You’re already better, she cried, happy tears this time. Will you be the godmother? She asked. Yes.

Absolutely yes. We talked about baby names about nursery colors. About the future, a future without our mother’s shadow. A future we were building ourselves. 3 months later, Michelle’s baby was born. A little girl named Emma. I flew to Boston to meet her. She was tiny, perfect, innocent.

Michelle looked at her daughter with so much love it hurt to watch. “I’m going to do better,” Michelle whispered to Emma. “I’m going to love you without controlling you. I’m going to let you be your own person. I knew she would. I knew Michelle had broken the cycle.” 6 months later, my mother was released on parole.

Her lawyer called and asked if I wanted her new address. I said no. She moved to a different state, started over somewhere else. She didn’t contact me. Didn’t try to reach out. Part of me was relieved. Part of me was sad.

I wondered if she really had changed, if prison and therapy had helped her see what she had done. But I didn’t reach out to find out. I was building my own life, a life without her manipulation. Daniel and I moved in together. It was a big step. I was nervous, but it felt right. We adopted a dog, a golden retriever named Buddy. He was goofy and sweet and made us both laugh.

Life felt normal, stable, good. Then one day, almost 2 years after the sentencing, I got another letter. This one was different, longer, more detailed. Amber, I know I don’t have the right to write to you again. But I need you to know what I’ve learned. In prison, I was forced to attend therapy. At first, I refused to participate.

I thought everyone else was wrong, that I was the victim. But slowly, over many sessions, I started to see the truth. I started to understand what I had done. The therapist helped me trace it back to my own childhood, to my own mother.

She was cruel to me, constantly told me I wasn’t good enough, that no one would ever love me. When I got older and men did show interest, I couldn’t believe it was real. I thought they must have ulterior motives. So, I tested them. I seduced their friends, their brothers, their fathers, anyone close to them. And when they failed the test, I felt validated.

I felt like I was right all along. No one could be trusted. When I had you and Michelle, I wanted to protect you from that pain. But I did it wrong. Instead of helping you build healthy relationships, I destroyed every relationship you tried to have. I made you as isolated and paranoid as I was. I’m so sorry, Amber.

I robbed you of so many years of happiness, so many connections. I can’t give those back to you. All I can do is promise that I’m working on myself. I’m taking medication. I’m continuing therapy even though I’m out of prison now. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m not asking for a relationship. I just wanted you to know that I understand now. I understand what I did and why it was wrong. I hope you’re happy. I hope you found people who really love you. You deserve that.

You always did. Mom, I read the letter multiple times. I cried, not because I forgave her, but because I finally understood her. She was a broken person who broke other people. And maybe finally, she was trying to fix herself. I showed the letter to my therapist. How does this make you feel? She asked.

sad, angry, confused, all of it at once. Do you believe she’s really changed? I don’t know, maybe. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t let her back into my life. It’s too risky. That’s very wise. You can acknowledge her progress without exposing yourself to potential harm.

Is it wrong that part of me wants to write back? No. It’s natural. She’s your mother. You’re allowed to have complicated feelings about her. I don’t think I’ll write back, though. Not yet. Maybe not ever. That’s okay, too. I put the second letter in the drawer with the first one. Daniel noticed I was quiet that evening. Everything okay? He asked.

My mom wrote to me again. Do you want to talk about it? Not really. I just want to be here with you in the present. He pulled me close. I’m not going anywhere. Promise. Promise. Time kept moving forward. Michelle’s daughter, Emma, grew, started walking, started talking. Michelle sent me videos every week.

Emma saying Auntie Amber. Emma taking her first steps. Emma laughing at something silly. I visited them as often as I could. Watched Emma grow into a bright, happy toddler. Michelle was an amazing mother. Patient, loving, nothing like our mother. You’re doing such a good job. I told her during one visit.

Some days I’m terrified I’m messing it up. You’re not. Emma is happy, healthy, loved. That’s all that matters. Do you want kids someday? Michelle asked. Maybe. I think so. I’m just scared of becoming her. Yeah, you won’t. You’re too aware. Too careful. I hope you’re right. A year later, Daniel proposed.

We were on vacation. Nothing fancy. Just a beach at sunset. Amber, he said, getting down on one knee. I know you’ve been through hell. I know you have scars, but you’re the strongest, bravest person I’ve ever met. I want to spend my life with you. Will you marry me? I said yes. Of course, I said yes.

We got married 6 months later. Small ceremony, just close friends and family. Dad walked me down the aisle. Susan cried happy tears. Michelle was my mate of honor. Emma was the flower girl. My mother wasn’t there. I didn’t invite her. Part of me felt guilty about that, but I knew it was the right choice.

Jessica gave a speech at the reception. I’ve known Amber since we were kids, she said. I’ve watched her go through so much, but she never gave up. She never let the pain turn her bitter. She chose to heal, to grow, to love. Amber, you inspire me. And Daniel, you’re lucky to have her. Take care of her. I cried during the speech.

Happy tears this time. After the wedding, Daniel and I went on our honeymoon. Two weeks in Italy. It was perfect. We ate amazing food. Saw incredible art. Made love in a tiny hotel room with a view of the Mediterranean. On our last night, we sat on a balcony watching the sunset. Are you happy? Daniel asked.

Yes, really happy. No regrets. About us? Never. About my mom? Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if she had been normal. if she had actually loved me in a healthy way. You can’t change the past. I know, but I can control the future. I can make sure our kids never go through what I went through.

Our kids? I smiled. Yeah, I think I’m ready. I think I want to have kids with you. Are you sure? I’m sure. I’m scared, but I’m sure. 2 years later, our son was born. We named him Ryan after Ryan, one of the guys from the support group. He had become a good friend over the years.

Holding my son for the first time was surreal. This tiny person who depended on me completely. I made him a promise. I will never hurt you the way she hurt me. I will love you without conditions. I will let you be your own person. Michelle came to visit with Emma. Emma was four now. She was excited to meet her new cousin.

He’s so tiny, Emma said, looking at baby Ryan. You were that tiny once, Michelle told her. Really? Really? Watching Emma gently touch Ryan’s hand, I felt overwhelmed with emotion. This was family. Real family built on love, not control. When Ryan was 6 months old, I got another letter from my mother. This one was short. Amber, I heard you got married and had a baby. Congratulations. I’m happy for you.

I know I’ll never meet my grandson. I know I don’t deserve to, but I want you to know that I’m proud of you. You broke the cycle. You became the person I should have been. I hope you’re happy. That’s all I ever really wanted for you, even though I showed it in the worst possible way.

Take care of yourself and take care of your family. They’re lucky to have you, Mom. I read the letter once and then put it with the others. I didn’t respond, but I didn’t throw it away either. Another letter? Daniel asked. Yeah. How do you feel? I don’t know. Sad, relieved. It’s weird.

Do you think you’ll ever talk to her? I don’t know. Maybe when I’m older when enough time has passed. Or maybe never. I’m not sure yet. Whatever you decide, I support you. Thank you. When Ryan was 2 years old, I got a call from Aunt Caroline. Amber, I need to tell you something. Your mother is sick. She has cancer. Stage 4. She doesn’t have long.

I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. How long? A few months, maybe less. She asked me to call you. She wants to see you. And Michelle, I don’t know if I can do that. I understand. I’m just passing along the message. Whatever you decide is okay. After I hung up, I called Michelle. I heard, she said.

Aunt Caroline called me, too. Are you going to see her? I don’t know. Part of me wants to. Part of me doesn’t. What are you going to do? I don’t know either. We talked for an hour, weighing the options, talking through our feelings. Finally, Michelle said, “I think I need to see her. Not for her, for me.

I need closure.” “Okay, I’ll go with you.” 2 weeks later, Michelle flew in from Boston. We drove to the hospice facility where my mother was staying. I was shaking the entire drive. “We can turn around,” Michelle said. “We don’t have to do this.” “No, we need to for closure.” Like you said, the hospice was quiet, peaceful. We checked in at the front desk and were directed to my mother’s room. She was lying in bed, so much smaller than I remembered.

So much frailer. When she saw us, she started crying. “You came,” she whispered. “We came,” Michelle said. We sat down in chairs beside her bed. No one spoke for a long moment. “I’m dying,” my mother finally said. “I suppose you already know that.” “We know.

” I said, “I don’t have much time, and I need to say some things. I need you to hear them. We’re listening,” Michelle said. “I was a terrible mother, the worst kind. I destroyed your lives because I couldn’t control my own fears and insecurities.

I spent so many years justifying what I did, telling myself I was protecting you, but I was really just protecting myself from loneliness, from feeling like I wasn’t enough. Tears streamed down her face. I can’t take back what I did. I can’t give you back those years. All I can do is tell you I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. You deserved better. You deserved a mother who lifted you up instead of tearing you down.

I felt tears on my own cheeks. Why? I asked. Why did you do it? Because I was broken and I didn’t know how to fix myself. So, I broke everyone around me instead. Did you ever really love us? Michelle asked. Yes, in my own twisted way, but my love was poisonous. It hurt instead of healed. We sat with her for an hour.

She told us about her own childhood, about her abusive mother, about the trauma she never processed. It didn’t excuse what she did, but it explained it. When it was time to leave, my mother reached for my hand. Amber, can I ask you something? What? Your son? What’s his name? Ryan. That’s a good name.

Is he happy? Yes, very happy. Good. That’s good. You’re a better mother than I ever was. I know, I said. Not meanly. Just honestly, I’m glad. I’m glad you broke the cycle. Michelle and I left the hospice together. We sat in the car for a long time, not speaking. How do you feel? Michelle finally asked. I don’t know. Sad, relieved, empty. Yeah, same. Do you think we’ll regret coming? No. I think we needed to see her. To hear her admit what she did for closure.

I don’t forgive her. Me neither. But I understand her now. And that’s something. My mother d!ed 3 weeks later. Aunt Caroline called to tell us. She went peacefully, Aunt Caroline said in her sleep. Thank you for letting us know. I said, “Are you coming to the funeral?” I looked at Daniel. Had baby Ryan sleeping in his crib. At the life I had built, “No,” I said. I said my goodbyes. “I understand.” Michelle didn’t go either.

We had both made our peace. Instead, Michelle and I spent that day together. We went to a park with Emma and Ryan. We pushed them on swings. We laughed at their joy. This is what she could never give us. Michelle said, watching the kids play. What? Peace. Joy. A normal childhood. But we can give it to them. Yeah, we can.

A few months later, I received a package in the mail from Aunt Caroline. Inside was a letter. Amber and Michelle, your mother left these for you. She wrote them in her final days. I was instructed to send them after her de@th. Whatever they say, remember that you owe her nothing.

You don’t have to read them if you don’t want to. You don’t have to forgive her. You’ve already done more than most people would. Love, Aunt Caroline. Inside the package were two sealed envelopes. One for me, one for Michelle. I called Michelle. Did you get a package from Aunt Caroline? Yeah, just opened it.

Are you going to read the letter? I don’t know. Are you? I think so. I think I need to know what she said. Okay, let’s read them together. Over video chat, we set up a video call. Both of us held our sealed envelopes. On three, Michelle said, “On three.” We counted down and opened them together. My letter was handwritten. Her handwriting was shaky. Weak. Amber, if you’re reading this, I’m gone. I want you to know that my biggest regret in life is how I treated you.

You were always so bright, so kind, so full of potential. And I tried to dim that light because I was scared. Scared you would leave me. Scared you would realize you didn’t need me. I see now how selfish that was. How cruel. I robbed you of so much, but you survived. You thrived. You became an amazing woman despite me, not because of me. I hope you have a beautiful life.

I hope you fill it with love and laughter and everything I couldn’t give you. Be happy, Amber. That’s all I really want. Even now, at the end, that’s all I want for you. I love you. I always did. I just didn’t know how to show it in a way that didn’t hurt. I’m sorry for everything. Goodbye, my darling girl. Mom, I looked up at the video screen. Michelle was crying, too.

What did yours say? I asked. She read it aloud. It was similar to mine. Apologies, regrets, wishes for a happy life. What do we do with these? Michelle asked. I don’t know. Keep them, I guess. As reminders. Reminders of what? That even broken people can recognize their mistakes. That healing is possible. That we’re not her. Are you glad you read it? Yeah, I think so.

It doesn’t change anything, but it helps knowing she finally understood. Do you forgive her? I thought about it for a long time. No, but I don’t hate her anymore either. I just feel sad. Sad for her? Sad for us? Sad for everyone she hurt. That’s fair. What about you? Do you forgive her? I don’t know. Maybe someday, but not today. We talked for another hour.

About our mother? About our childhoods? About how far we had come. When we finally hung up, I felt something shift inside me. Not forgiveness, not closure, just acceptance. My mother was gone. The damage she caused would always be there, but I was moving forward anyway.

I put the letter in the drawer with the others. A collection of apologies that came too late. But at least they came. Life continued. Ryan grew into a curious, energetic toddler. Daniel and I talked about having another baby. Are you sure? Daniel asked. It’s a lot of work, I’m sure. I want Ryan to have a sibling. Someone he can rely on.

Someone who understands him like you and Michelle. Exactly. A year later, our daughter was born. We named her Caroline after Aunt Caroline. The woman who had finally broken the silence about my mother’s abuse. Aunt Caroline cried when we told her. I don’t deserve that honor. She said, “Yes, you do.

You could have stayed silent. You could have protected her, but you didn’t. You told us the truth. You helped us escape. I should have done it sooner. You did it when you could. That’s what matters.” Holding baby Caroline, I felt complete. My family was whole. Not the family I was born into. The family I had created.

Daniel and I were happy. Ryan and Caroline were happy. That was everything. Jessica came to visit and meet the baby. “She’s beautiful,” Jessica said, holding Caroline. “You guys make cute kids. Thanks. How are things with you?” “Good. I actually have news. I’m engaged. What? When did this happen?” “Last week. I wanted to tell you in person. We spent the afternoon celebrating, drinking wine.

Well, I had sparkling water since I was still breastfeeding and talking about wedding plans. You’re going to be my maid of honor, right?” Jessica asked. Obviously, I wouldn’t miss it. Your mom would have loved this. Seeing us all grown up, married with kids, I tensed slightly. Sorry, Jessica said quickly. I shouldn’t have mentioned her. It’s okay.

You’re right. She would have loved this. In her own twisted way, she wanted me to have a family. She just wanted to be the center of it, the only important person in it. Do you ever think about her? Sometimes, usually when I’m with the kids, I’ll be reading Ryan a bedtime story or feeding Caroline and I’ll think about how she must have done these same things with me and I wonder when it changed. When she went from being a normal mom to being a monster, maybe she was always a monster.

Maybe she just h!t it better when you were little. Maybe. Or maybe something broke inside her. I guess I’ll never really know. Does it matter knowing why? Not really. It doesn’t change anything. She’s gone. I’m here. Life goes on. Time kept passing. Ryan started preschool. Caroline learned to walk.

Daniel got a promotion at work. I started writing a blog about healing from narcissistic parents. It gained a following. People reached out with their own stories. I realized I wasn’t alone. There were thousands of people out there with mothers like mine, fathers like mine, people who destroy their children’s lives in the name of love.

I started a support group. We met once a month in a community center. Sometimes five people showed up, sometimes 20. Everyone had a different story, but the pain was the same. A woman named Patricia told us her mother had convinced all of her friends that she was a pathological liar.

By the time Patricia was a teenager, no one believed anything she said. A man named David said his father sabotaged every job he tried to get. Called his employers and said David had a criminal record. It took David years to figure out why he kept getting fired.

A young woman named Sophia said her mother faked having cancer to keep Sophia from moving away for college. Sophia stayed home to take care of her. Two years later, she found out there was never any cancer. Each story was heartbreaking, but there was also hope because we were all survivors. We had all escaped. We were all healing. Marcus started coming to the meetings.

So did Jake and Ryan, the one my mother blackmailed. We formed a community, people who understood what it was like to be raised by someone who was supposed to love you, but only knew how to hurt you. Thank you for doing this. Marcus said to me after one meeting, “I spent years thinking I was alone. That something was wrong with me.

This group saved me. You’re not alone. None of us are.” The group grew. We started a website, a newsletter, a hotline for people in crisis. Michelle helped run the online community. She shared her story, offered advice, connected people with resources.

“This is what we should do with our pain,” Michelle said during one of our calls. “Turn it into something that helps people. Mom would hate this.” “Good. She doesn’t get to control our narrative anymore.” On what would have been my mother’s 65th birthday. I wrote a blog post. I titled it to The Mother Who Broke Me: I Survived You. I wrote about everything. The manipulation, the lies, the destroyed relationships, the years of therapy, the slow process of healing.

But I also wrote about joy, about finding love, about breaking the cycle, about creating a family built on trust instead of control. The post went viral. Thousands of people shared it. Hundreds commented with their own stories. A literary agent reached out. Have you ever thought about writing a book? I hadn’t.

But once she suggested it, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. 6 months later, I signed a book deal. The title was Breaking the Narcissist Hold: My Journey from Victim to Survivor. Writing the book was painful. I had to relive everything. Every betrayal, every lie, every moment of realizing just how deep my mother’s manipulation went.

But it was also healing, getting it all out, putting it on paper, claiming my story. Daniel supported me through the whole process. On nights when I couldn’t stop crying, he held me. On days when I wanted to give up, he encouraged me. You’re helping people, he reminded me. This book is going to change lives.

The book came out a year later. It was a modest success, not a bestseller, but enough people bought it that it made a difference. I started getting emails, letters, messages from people whose lives had been changed by reading my story. A woman wrote, “I spent 40 years thinking I was crazy.

Your book helped me realize I wasn’t. My mother was the problem. Thank you for giving me permission to walk away.” A man wrote, “I read your book and finally understood why all my relationships failed. I’m in therapy now, working on breaking the patterns. Thank you for showing me it’s possible.

A teenager wrote, “I’m 17 and living with a mother like yours. Your book gave me hope that I can escape, that life can be better. Thank you.” Each message meant the world to me. Proof that my pain had purpose, that my mother’s abuse didn’t have to be meaningless. 5 years after my mother d!ed, I went back to her grave. I hadn’t been there since the burial. But I felt like I needed to. I brought flowers, white roses, her favorite.

I stood at her headstone and didn’t know what to say. Finally, I spoke. I don’t forgive you. I probably never will, but I understand you now. I understand that you were broken, that you were hurting, that you did the best you could with the tools you had. It wasn’t enough. It hurt me and Michelle and so many others, but I understand.

And I’m letting go of the anger. Not for you. For me, because I can’t carry it anymore. It’s too heavy. So, I’m leaving it here. With you, I’m moving on. I have a life now. A good life. A happy life. The kind of life you could never give me. And I’m grateful. Not grateful for the pain, but grateful that I survived it.

That I learned from it. That I became stronger because of it. I hope you found peace wherever you are. I hope you finally figured out what love really means. Goodbye, Mom. I placed the flowers on her grave and walked away. I felt lighter. Free. When I got home, Daniel and the kids were in the backyard.

Ryan was pushing Caroline on a swing. They were both laughing. Mommy. Caroline squealled when she saw me. Push me higher. I joined them. Pushed Caroline on the swing. Caught Ryan when he jumped off the jungle gym. Sat with my family in the grass and watched the clouds. This was happiness. Simple, pure, real. Not the twisted version my mother tried to create. Not the controlled, isolated life she wanted for me. Just love. Just family.

Just life. That night after the kids were asleep, Daniel and I sat on the couch. How was it? He asked going to her grave. It was okay. I said what I needed to say. I feel better. Good. I’m proud of you. You’ve come so far. We’ve come so far. I couldn’t have done this without you. Yes, you could have.

But I’m glad you didn’t have to. He kissed me. I kissed him back. We went to bed. And for the first time in years, I slept without nightmares. The next morning, I woke up to Ryan and Caroline jumping on the bed. “Pancakes!” Ryan shouted. “Daddy’s making pancakes with chocolate chips!” Caroline added.

I laughed and followed them to the kitchen. Daniel was at the stove flipping pancakes. The radio was playing. The sun was streaming through the windows. It was perfect, ordinary, beautiful, everything my childhood wasn’t, everything I had worked so hard to create. A year later, Michelle called with news.

“I’m pregnant again,” she said. “That’s amazing. Congratulations. Thanks. I’m terrified, but also excited. You’re going to be great. You already are.” I’ve been thinking about mom a lot lately about what she would think if she would be happy for me or jealous. Probably both. Yeah, probably. But it doesn’t matter. She’s not here. You are.

And you get to write your own story now. You’re right. I just wish it wasn’t so complicated. I wish I could just be happy without all this baggage. The baggage made us who we are. We wouldn’t be the mothers we are without it. We learned what not to do. That’s true. I never thought about it that way.

Turn the pain into purpose. Remember? Yeah. Turn the pain into purpose. Michelle’s second baby, a boy named Owen, was born healthy and happy. I flew to Boston to meet him. Emma, now eight, was excited to be a big sister again. She held Owen carefully, gently with so much love. He’s so small. she whispered.

“You were that small once,” Michelle told her. “Was Grandma Linda there when I was born?” “Michelle and I exchanged glances.” “No, honey,” Michelle said carefully. “Grandma Linda and I weren’t talking then.” “Why not? Because sometimes grown-ups have disagreements, and sometimes those disagreements are too big to fix.” “Oh, that’s sad. It is sad. But it’s also okay. We have lots of other people who love us, like Grandpa and Susan.

” Exactly like Grandpa and Susan. I watched Michelle navigate the conversation with Grace. She didn’t lie to Emma, but she also didn’t burden her with the whole truth. There would be time for that later when Emma was older, when she could understand. For now, Emma got to just be a kid, happy, loved, safe. the way Michelle and I never were.

10 years after my mother’s de@th, I was invited to speak at a conference about narcissistic abuse. It was a big event. Hundreds of people. I was nervous. Public speaking wasn’t my strength, but I had a story to tell and people needed to hear it. I stood on stage and looked out at the audience.

So many faces, so much pain, so much hope. My name is Amber. I began. And my mother slept with my exes to prove they weren’t loyal. The audience was silent. Listening, I told my story, the whole story, the manipulation, the betrayal, the years of healing.

But I also told them about joy, about survival, about building a life worth living. When I finished, the room erupted in applause. People stood up. Some were crying. Afterward, dozens of people came up to talk to me, to share their stories, to thank me. A woman in her 60s, hugged me. “I spent my whole life thinking I was the problem,” she said.

“Your story helped me realize I wasn’t.” “Thank you.” A young man, maybe 20, shook my hand. “I’m still living with my narcissistic father,” he said. “But hearing you speak gave me hope. Hope that I can escape. That life can be better.” “It can.” I told him. “It will be.” “Just keep moving forward, one day at a time.

” That night, I called Michelle. “How did it go?” She asked. It was incredible. Scary, but incredible. I think I actually helped people. Of course, you did. Your story matters, Amber. Our story matters. Do you ever think about writing your own book? Sometimes. Maybe I will someday. For now, I’m just focused on my kids, on breaking the cycle. You’re doing an amazing job. So are you. We talked for an hour about our kids, about our lives, about how far we had come.

I’m glad we have each other, Michelle said before we hung up. Me, too. I don’t know what I would have done without you. Same. We survived her together. We’re thriving now together. Together, I agreed. More years passed. Ryan went to middle school. Caroline started elementary school.

Daniel and I celebrated 10 years of marriage. My book was still selling steadily. The support group was still meeting monthly. The online community had grown to thousands of members. I had turned my trauma into a mission, and that mission was helping people. One day, I got an email from a woman named Jennifer.

She said she was a therapist specializing in narcissistic abuse. She had read my book and wanted to collaborate. I think we could help a lot of people together. She wrote, “Would you be interested in creating a program, online courses, workshops? I was interested, very interested.” Jennifer and I met for coffee. We talked for hours about our experiences, our visions, our goals.

6 months later, we launched Breaking Free, a healing program for survivors of narcissistic abuse. It included video courses, workbooks, group sessions, and one-on-one coaching. The response was overwhelming. Hundreds of people signed up in the first month. We heard stories that broke our hearts and stories that inspired us. A woman who had been controlled by her narcissistic mother for 40 years finally went no. Contact and rebuilt her life.

A man who thought he was unlovable found a healthy relationship and got married. A teenager escaped her abusive home and moved in with a supportive aunt. Each success story fueled us. Reminded us why we were doing this work. We’re making a difference. Jennifer said during one of our planning meetings. Real tangible difference. I never thought my pain would lead to this. I said when I was in the thick of it when I was first learning what my mother had done, I thought my life was over.

I thought I would never be happy. But you are happy. I am really truly happy and I want other people to know that’s possible that you can survive narcissistic abuse and still have a beautiful life. That’s exactly the message we need to keep spreading.

On the 15th anniversary of cutting off my mother, I wrote another blog post, 15 years free, what I’ve learned. I wrote about the journey, the ups and downs, the setbacks and breakthroughs. I wrote about the guilt, the guilt of cutting off my own mother, the guilt of being relieved when she d!ed, the guilt of not forgiving her.

But I also wrote about the freedom, the freedom to be myself, to make my own choices, to build my own life. 15 years ago, I made the hardest decision of my life. I wrote I cut my mother out. I walked away. And it was the best decision I ever made. It saved my life. It saved my future. It saved me.

If you’re reading this and you’re still in the thick of it, still trapped, still suffering, I want you to know escape is possible. Healing is possible. Happiness is possible. It won’t be easy. It will hurt. You will grieve. You will question yourself. But on the other side of that pain is freedom. And freedom is worth fighting for. The post resonated with thousands of people.

It was shared across social media, featured in online magazines. I even got a call from a TV producer who wanted to do a documentary. I thought about it, talked to Daniel, talked to Michelle. It’s a big step, Daniel said. Going public like that. Are you ready? I think so. I think it’s time to tell the story. The whole story.

Not just for me. For everyone who’s still suffering, Michelle agreed to participate. So did some of the guys from the support group, Marcus, Jake, Ryan. They all wanted to help. The documentary took a year to make. Interviews, reenactments, research. It was exhausting, emotionally draining, but also cathartic. When it aired, it reached millions of people. It sparked conversations. It opened eyes.

People who had never heard of narcissistic abuse learned about it. People who were suffering realized they weren’t alone. The hashtag d!ed breaking free from narcissist trended for days. I got messages from all over the world. From people in Japan, Brazil, Australia, Germany, India. Narcissistic abuse was universal. It crossed cultures and borders and people were finally talking about it. Ryan, now a teenager, asked me about the documentary.

Mom, was Grandma Linda really that bad? I had protected my kids from the worst of it. They knew she had been difficult. They knew we didn’t have a relationship, but they didn’t know the details. Yes, I said. Honestly, she was. She hurt a lot of people, including me and Aunt Michelle. Why did she do it? Because she was sick.

She had a mental illness that made her see relationships in a twisted way. She thought she was helping, but she was actually hurting. That’s sad. It is sad for everyone involved. Are you glad she’s gone? I thought about it carefully. I’m glad I’m free, I said.

I’m sad that she couldn’t be the mother I needed, but I’m glad I get to be the mother you need. You’re a good mom. Thank you, baby. That means everything to me. Caroline, now 12, had questions, too. Why didn’t you ever talk about Grandma Linda? Because it was painful and complicated. I wanted to protect you guys from that pain, but we’re old enough now. We can handle it.

She was right. They were old enough. So, Daniel and I sat down with both kids and told them the truth. An age appropriate version, but the truth nonetheless. Your grandma did some things that hurt people, I explained. She manipulated relationships. She lied. She made it very hard for me and Aunt Michelle to trust people. That’s why you’re always asking us about our friends, Ryan said. You want to make sure they’re treating us right. Exactly.

I want to make sure you have healthy relationships, not like the ones I had when I was growing up. We do, Mom. Our friends are good. You don’t have to worry. I know, but it’s hard not to worry when you’ve been hurt the way I was. You want to protect your kids from ever experiencing that pain. We get it, Caroline said. And we appreciate it.

Even when you’re annoying about it, we all laughed. It felt good being honest with my kids, letting them see the real me. Scars and all. 20 years after cutting off my mother, I stood in my kitchen making coffee. The sun was streaming through the windows. Daniel was reading the newspaper. Ryan was at college. Caroline was at a friend’s house. The house was quiet, peaceful.

I thought about how far I had come from that terrified 28-year-old who just learned the truth about her mother to this. A woman with a career helping others. A loving marriage, two incredible kids, a life I was proud of. My mother tried to destroy me. She tried to make me as broken and isolated as she was. But I survived. I thrived. I won. Not because I’m special. Not because I’m stronger than anyone else, but because I refused to let her define me. I refused to let her abuse be the end of my story.

I made it the beginning, the catalyst, the thing that pushed me to become better, to do better, to be better. My phone buzzed. A text from Michelle. 20 years, it said. Can you believe it? Barely, I texted back. But here we are. Here we are. survivors, thrivvers, living our best lives despite her. Because of her, in a weird way. The pain made us stronger. It did. I wouldn’t recommend it as a path to strength, though. I laughed. No, definitely not.

Love you, sis. Love you, too. I put down my phone and looked around my kitchen at the photos on the wall. My wedding, the kids, school pictures, family vacations, holidays, a life full of love and laughter and normaly. Everything my mother couldn’t give me, everything I gave myself. And that was enough.

That was more than enough. That was everything.