It was my decision to reject my dad. But my mom made it impossible to refuse.
I realize now how deeply family expectations ran through my life. In my late teens, my dad’s absence was painful but manageable on my own terms. His words were few—you could say he was emotionally unavailable. Choosing distance felt like self-protection.
But then came my mother’s expectations. She insisted I keep the door open, pushed me to visit, to reach out—even when it felt hollow. Her voice was guilt-laced: “You’re overreacting,” “He’s your father,” or “You owe him that chance.” Suddenly what I’d framed as a personal boundary became a battleground where her hopes clashed with my emotional truth.
I remember lying awake, heart pounding, torn between my relief at his absence and her insistence on reconciliation. The more I held my distance, the more she urged repair—but not because she believed it was healthy; she believed it was necessary.
I tried explaining why I felt trapped—how his silence didn’t feel like indifference but absence in its most consuming form. But my words seemed to evaporate in the air. She would pinch back, reminding me that his rights as a parent mattered, that my actions shaped who I was. I began to question myself: Was my choosing to reject toxic distance selfish? Was I trampling his potential for healing?
I realized that my mom’s push wasn’t rooted in my healing—it was about her peace, her fear of things “falling apart.” And though she framed it as caring, it felt like coercion.
So one evening, I sat her down and spoke quietly but clearly: “I respect him choosing not to parent well, but I also choose to leave that behind—for my own health.” I added, “I don’t want this to be seen as betrayal or stubbornness—but as refusal to be hurt again.”
She sat silent for a long time. That night cracks in her composed posture surfaced. And while she didn’t fully agree, she paused her push. It was the first step toward letting me carry my own choices—without guilt or second-guessing.
Weeks later, I called her to say, “Thanks for stepping back. I’m sorry it had to happen this way.” She cried quietly. I felt her grief. And I felt relief.
Setting clear boundaries isn’t about making others right or wrong—it’s about honoring your own truth. I didn’t refuse him out of spite. I refused the version of the relationship that was harmful to me. And though my mom struggled, she learned to respect that.
